


As Ehn Dea Isalem

by Isala_Vhenan



Series: As Ehn Dea Isalem [1]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Blood and Violence, Canon-Typical Violence, Character Development, Dalish Elven Culture and Customs, Dalish Elves, Dalish Lore, Denial of Feelings, Developing Friendships, Developing Relationship, Discussion of Genocide, Dragon Age: Inquisition Spoilers, Dreamers (Dragon Age), Elf Culture & Customs, Elf rights, Elves, Elvhen, Elvhen Language, Elvhen Lore, Elvish, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Eventual Romance, Flirting, Fluff and Angst, Implied/Referenced Abuse, Magic, Nonbinary Character, Nonbinary Lavellan - Freeform, Other, Redemption, Rivals to Lovers, Romantic Fluff, Sexual Tension, Solas Romance, Solavellan, Solavellan Hell, canon is whatever i say it is, elven language, occasional nsfw, solas critical, solasmance
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-04-21
Updated: 2020-12-16
Packaged: 2021-03-02 00:13:33
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 76,357
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23585917
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Isala_Vhenan/pseuds/Isala_Vhenan
Summary: Isala, First of Clan Lavellan, struggles with the reality of being different. Born with strong magic, surviving a difficult past, and possessing a rare appearance, she wishes to travel far and wide to recover the knowledge and history of her people. Her love for the Dalish and Elven culture and history draws her out into the world where her new discoveries and unconventional methods reveal things she didn't know about herself or her people. Eventually she is drawn into the chaos sweeping through Thedas as mages rise up in protest of the violent oppression they have been subjected to for centuries. As a result of general unrest, Isala finds herself at the Conclave, and you probably know where things go from there.
Relationships: Dalish Elf | Elves/Solas, Fen'Harel/Lavellan (Dragon Age), Inquisitor/Solas (Dragon Age), Lavellan & Solas, Lavellan/Solas (Dragon Age), Mage Inquisitor/Solas, Mage Lavellan/Solas, Nonbinary Inquisitor/Solas, Nonbinary Lavellan/Solas, Solas/Lavellan, lavellan x solas
Series: As Ehn Dea Isalem [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1697836
Comments: 26
Kudos: 36
Collections: Solas X Lavellan





	1. CHAPTER I: Felas Dana

**Author's Note:**

> *I'm an Indigenous Jewish person, and so obviously writing from that perspective  
> *Isala is an Indigenous character of color and about 29 years old by 9:41 Dragon  
> *Isala is a nonbinary character who uses she/her and they/them pronouns. I tend to only use she/her pronouns in my fic writing for her because otherwise it can get confusing. I would appreciate if people would not try to have discussions/debates about gender on my works!  
> *This fic features Solas as an Indigenous man of color and involves character development and the beginnings of a redemption arc for him. I also have him as about 35 years old (plus a few sadly unavoidable millennia).

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Isala, First of Clan Lavellan, suffers with the burden of a painful past, even as a teenager. Living with the reality of being different she struggles with knowing where she stands, even within her beloved clan. As part of her training as the Keeper's First Isala must see the world beyond their ways, but things do not go as planned...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Felas Dana (Slow Break)
> 
> Translations for Elvish are in the end notes

**{9:28 Dragon}**

Sunlight filtered through the lush foliage of the forest and heightened the colors of the painted symbols on the aravels. The clan had been traveling for weeks, unable to find a human settlement willing to trade, or make allowances for “knife-ears”. The woodland the clan was migrating through was neutral ground, however, supposedly “owned” by none except the crown.

Deshanna Istimaethoriel Lavellan directed hunters to the woods and warriors to patrol or set up camp with the rest of the clansmen. A carved wooden stave was held in Deshanna’s right hand as they shifted in their ironbark armor and deposited various packs and furs next to their large aravel. The Keeper was tall and lean with dark skin rosy from effort, their gray hair pulled back and braided in intricate knots to crown a finely shaven undercut. Their eyes were gentle and downturned, dark green matching their vallaslin, the sharp symbols of Andruil. Deshanna had aged well, but was nonetheless weathered with the years, crows feet at their eyes revealing a humor to offset their angular appearance. This elf’s commanding presence was clear; not that of an authoritarian but rather a stern parental figure; gentle yet firm. They were the Keeper of Clan Lavellan.

Finished with instructing the clansmen, Deshanna turned around to face the trail of aravels and elves still moving towards the glen where they had decided to set up camp. At the back of the crowd was a white-haired figure, separate from the rest and moving leisurely, head swiveling to take in the surroundings. The Keeper called out to her.

“Isala, _garas da’len._ ” The head tilted at the sound and began to walk more purposefully, a small frame weaving through her clansmen who eyed her warily. She arrived in front of Deshanna dressed in green-dyed fabrics and leather bindings of a deep chestnut. The girl’s gaze was direct and curious, large slanted eyes peered up, golden and bright under the flowering antlers of Ghilan’nain’s vallaslin, the symbols traced in muted gold on her light brown skin. Her nose was gentle but proud, features familiar to the clan with her high cheekbones and full lips. White hair fell loosely over her back and shoulders, gleaming and smooth in the sunlight. It was her coloring that made Isala odd, even among her kinsmen.

“ _Ma athlanem sul em?_ ” Her voice was light; accent sharp and lilting to match a pitch not too high that held a soft aspect that was soothing, almost melodic. The Keeper nodded, eyes appraising their First: young, intelligent, and strong...but ready?

 _“Shemlen din’eth_ .” The girl raised her eyebrows as if questioning the need to voice such an obvious fact aloud, but said nothing. “ _Mar melana emen garas. Ma dara shemlen mor'vharlaan._ ” Gold eyes lit up with enthusiasm, posture straightening with excitement. Isala noticed the Keeper’s amusement at her obvious reaction and reined in her emotions.

“ _Ma nuvenin_ Keeper.” Deshanna smiled softly and ushered the girl towards the Keeper’s aravel. It had been moved to the center of a crescent formed by other painted wagons, colorful sails and bodies forming a shield around the large glen where the clan was beginning to unpack. A few hunters had already returned with game while other members had unpacked the racks to hang their prizes.

Some of the clan’s children who had not yet been chided by their parents to help milled around the Keeper and Isala’s legs, their voices shrill with excitement, Elvish rolling off their tongues as naturally as breathing. They tugged at Isala’s clothes and grabbed at her hands. She laughed softly, awkwardness offset by her gaze; warm and patient as they pulled at her excitedly. The clan as a whole kept their distance from the First, but the children had not yet been instilled with caution. Their parents did not usually feel so forgiving. A few wary gazes stayed on the girl as they crossed the glen to the Keeper’s aravel and Deshanna gently shooed the children away.

It was no one’s fault really, the distance between their disciple and clansmen, but Deshanna felt regret all the same. Those who did not feel uneasy about Isala’s power or background were affected by superstition just enough to keep her at arms length. Those who despised her had been separated from the clan after several incidents, but muted unease remained hidden behind the eyes of some of the clan. Not so much that she was outright avoided, but enough to nurture their First into a child accustomed to loneliness and familiar with alienation; a distance within their tribe. There was no animosity among the clan which meant Isala had adopted a quiet nature tempered by good humor, but her disposition meant she would not approach others first. As a result of the caution she had learned through hardship, Isala and the clan were at an impasse in their relations.

The Keeper hoped that, with time, their people would realize the girl’s powers were under control, and her appearance and circumstances just a whim of nature and the Creators, but many in the clan had grown comfortably cautious and would not breach that distance. They were a community and a family, but that did not mean they were all of the same mind. Interactions and perspectives changed with time, as all things did.

As Deshanna ruminated, a young hunter ran towards his peers with a prize in hand: a large fat rabbit. He tripped over himself in his excitement, and fell with a thud to the ground in front of the Keeper and the First. His game flew from his grip and onto Isala’s chest, blood from the fresh kill spattering her face. A moment of silence, all eyes wide with shock, and then she broke it with a loud laugh.

“For me? A fascinating way to give it _Lethallen_!” Isala smiled and handed the rabbit back to the young man. He flushed and stuttered, fumbling with the carcass as she laid it in his arms. When he continued his journey to his peers, slower now, his repeated back-glances and the jeers of his friends followed them into the aravel. Deshanna sighed quietly: some of those in the clan were less wary, but their attentions were not desired either. Isala’s amusement lingered in her eyes as they sat down on the assorted furs and pillows in the Keeper’s aravel, ready to speak at leisure. 

“The human settlement nearby must be approached in hopes of trade, and you will accompany us to meet them and conduct an exchange.” Isala’s body thrummed with quiet excitement; this would be her first true encounter with a human settlement, an important experience to gain in order to be Keeper one day.

Deshanna looked searchingly in their First’s face for any tinge of fear or doubt but saw only her usual unbridled curiosity. The Keeper chuckled and waved the girl down, drawing her attention once more. 

“Your mind must be racing _da’len_ , but do not forget the danger humans pose. I know your thirst for knowledge can sometimes blind you, but you must not allow yourself to slip around the _shemlen_ . They are not known by that name for nothing.” Isala nodded solemnly. ‘Quick children’ meant many things, not the least of them: quick to anger, reluctant to speak in depth, and eager to rush to judgement and action. Various short-lived encounters with humans had taught her that as much as the stories the _hahren_ told.

The Keeper, approving of the teen’s sincerity, continued. “Some hunters will accompany us, others may join as well. Bring a weapon but keep it hidden out of sight. Humans may be deemed worthy of respect if they earn it, but that does not mean they should be trusted implicitly, especially in a first encounter.” Another nod of affirmation and Deshanna continued.

“We will greet them tomorrow, let us meet at the edge of camp and head out at dawn so we can, hopefully, bring back some goods for the evening. Now…” Green eyes surveyed the girl, eyes still alight with curiosity but calmed. “Did you practice the spells I taught you, without your staff?” Isala’s soft enthusiasm spiked again and she leaned forward in her eagerness.

“Yes! The mana surged and peaked at my fingertips, tingling…it was incredible.” The Keeper laughed at her delight, and beckoned the girl closer. Isala complied, inching next to the older elf, eyes bright with excitement. Deshanna offered a hand, palm up, fingers closed, and then opened the members, pellets of frost cascading upwards from the tips as they completed a muted version of the spell.

Isala sighed dreamily, and looked to her mentor for direction. A nod from Deshanna and her hand eagerly shot out, palm up, thin fingers curled. She clenched them into a fist before releasing gently and ushering out a surge of ice fragments . The girl smiled with delight and the Keeper echoed her joy, their lips curving upward. Isala was powerful, but it still bewildered Deshanna how she could be feared.

“ _On Nydha da’len_.”

∞ ∞ ∞ 

Morning came slowly to Isala, who tossed and turned in her furs, so eager for tomorrow she forgot the obvious fact that, until she slept, tomorrow would continue its journey at a sluggish pace. 

“ _Felas_!” Isala groaned softly and furrowed her brow in frustration, trying to calm her nerves to sleep. Unwanted memories drifted through her mind as she struggled to slip into dreams, and she shuddered. Nights were always long when old pain prevented her from finding solace in dreams. 

A knock on the side of the aravel woke Isala just as she had fallen into dreaming and she shot up, tangled in her furs.

" _Sa’el_?” It was Cammen, his mid-range voice shrill with nervousness. She could hear the muted snickers of Theron in the background, and a heavy sigh that had to be Deygan. A brief and fitful sleep, but Isala felt rested nonetheless. She donned her leather wrappings and sheathed her dagger at her inner thigh. After slipping on her tunic she fastened on her braces, the soft leather felt cold against her skin, waking her further. 

Clothing and furs donned, Isala settled her potions belt around her hips and exited the aravel as she quickly brushed through her hair with her fingers. Cammen was just outside and yelped in surprise when she emerged suddenly. His dark skin was flushed, gray vallaslin of June tinged pink and Theron laughed at his reaction, even Deygan's lips curved upward.

Cammen was sweet, like a child with no ill intentions, his mannerisms timid and gentle. His cousin Theron was proud and cocky, their mischievous and flirty nature renowned and simultaneously ignored by the clan. Both were skilled hunters, and seemed to complement one another when together. Deygan was one of the clan’s most skilled warriors, and his attitude reflected it: firm, stoic, and unwavering. All had dark skin and black hair, Cammen and Theron shared brown-amber eyes while Deygan’s were a piercing gray. 

The young clansmen had likely been teasing Cammen, who was shy, and seemed terrified of Isala. He seemed to turn either red or ashen whenever he saw her and would often stutter frantically. Theron had flirted with everyone young enough in the clan at some point in time, except Isala, and seemed unsure whether they wanted to try. Deygan was refreshing as it seemed his entire focus was to exist solely as a warrior, wall-like and impartial with no ulterior motives beyond protecting the clan.

“ _On dhea_ Cammen.” His cheeks were flushed, his body leaning away from hers as he stuttered a greeting back to her. Theron leaned casually against a nearby tree,their long dark braids were tied back and the amber vallaslin of Andruil seemed to shine in the morning sun.

“Such a cry Cammen, try not to wake the whole camp would you?” Their cousin’s blush intensified and he mumbled something unintelligible before glancing back to Deygan, who stood with his arms crossed over his chest, feet planted wide. He ignored Cammen, simply shaking his head before nodding a greeting to Isala, sparing with words as always. Deygan’s hair swayed with the movement, the tight braids descending from the center of his head framed by cleanly shaven scalp, out of the way so as not to block his eyes. The white symbols of Falon’Din on his features almost made you lose sight of his expression with the stark contrast against his skin. He didn’t need it, though, the last time Isala had seen his expression change dramatically was when Theron had been kicked into a muddy pit by the halla when he wouldn’t leave well enough alone. It had also been one of the rare moments any had heard him laugh. Isala smiled at the memory, and the knowledge that Theron now avoided getting within kicking distance of the halla, and greeted them.

“ _On dhea_ Theron, Deygan. _Iras_ Keeper Deshanna ?” Clan Lavellan traded with humans and took an interest, for the purposes of survival, in their affairs. They also, like many other Dalish clans, spoke mostly Elvish. For their clan, they spoke very little common at all. Isala’s grasp of the common, or "King's" tongue, was considerable due to her training as the First, but still slightly limited due to her focus on researching and learning Elvish. Being able to speak common could be important to survival, but as they did not have much occasion to converse with humans despite some intermittent exchanges, there was not much need in general. Still, knowledge was precious to the Dalish, though not many had the resources to obtain it given the way their culture and history had been razed, and continued to be destroyed and stolen, particularly when elves were still under almost constant threat by outsiders. Each time Isala thought of this reality she was swept up in a rush of emotions and something in her chest felt like it was being squeezed. Even in these passing moments communicating with her clan members, such thoughts reminded her how precious this was. 

Calling her back to the present moment, Theron answered her question by giving a vague gesture towards the other side of the glen where Cammen now shifted nervously. Isala sighed, and began walking in the direction they had waved while Deygan moved to fall in behind her. He was like a bodyguard of sorts; he had been one of the older children that had seen her after the Shrine. The request by the Keeper to protect her was, Isala suspected, accompanied by a self-assigned duty to keep an eye on her, and any threat she might pose.

Isala crested the small hill outside their camp and saw the Keeper’s back at the edge of the clearing, looking in the direction of the human settlement. 

“ _Aneth’ara_ Keeper.” The older elf smiled down at her, several packs lay by their feet; the goods they would hopefully get to trade.

“ _Da’len_.” Deshanna turned to the others and greeted them as well. Salutations exchanged, they picked up the packs to carry to the town while Isala walked with the Keeper to collect fresh herbs and edible plants. They set out towards the settlement, a long walk with winding paths and worn signs ushering them onwards. They stopped to fill their waterskins in a stream, and then continued forward.

A few hours later, they had arrived in front of the worn portcullis of the city. The gates were closed and the guards posted on the walls made their disdain towards the elves palpable even through their metal helmets, ornamental armor gleaming in the sunlight. For a moment, Isala hung there, eyes held fast by the sight of towering walls embracing the city like the maws of a dragon, and the bright gleam of the blades in the guards' belts. It was dangerous, what they were about to do. They relied on the compassion or even apathy of humans even as they did not trust them. When they entered the city they would be in the human's territory, surrounded by potential enemies or complicit bystanders. But they needed to do it. And this city had traded with them before. Isala only prayed they had not changed much since then. The Keeper announced them and almost reluctantly, the gate opened. 

Six guards emerged in full armor, swords and shields glistening as they marched towards them. Theron and Deygan started forward, defensive, but the Keeper held out their hands, ‘ wait ’. The guards stopped in front of the group and the leading man, voice deep with a thick accent, spoke.

“We greet you, Dalish, and will permit trading with you. But you’re to undergo inspection to ensure—” his eyes stopped on Isala, and widened. She shifted uncomfortably, her coloring was as odd to humans as it was to her own people apparently. The guards behind him seemed to be looking at her too. She could feel her pulse quicken and her hands started to shake, could they sense her magic? Her fingers were so cold they felt like they were burning. The guard cleared his throat and continued. “...to ensure that you have not brought any weapons.” The Keeper nodded.

“Very well, we will comply. As long as you discard your weapons as you do so.” One man sneered.

“We do not need your trade knife-ear . It’s you who is in need of our resources, so don’t presume—” the leading guard held up a hand, much like Deshanna had done earlier.

“We will keep only our shields. Is this agreeable?” The Keeper nodded, it was not. But they had little choice. The guards moved forward and separated to search them. It seemed to be a quick pat down, simply skimming the limbs for hidden compartments and sheathes in leather, or for the feel of metal beneath cloth. Isala was not used to being touched by another person, the only one to do so in years had been Deshanna. 

She clenched her hands into fists and stood stiffly as the lead guard walked towards her. His metaled hands stretched out to search her and she flinched at the cold sensation, sharp against soft. 

Theron, Deygan, and Cammen all stood silently as they were searched, staring straight ahead while Deshanna kept an eye on them to remind them not to be hostile. The guard’s armored fingers on Isala made something inside her want to scream.

Deshanna turned to look at her, and as they did the guard pulled away. The girl let out a slow breath of relief: he would not touch her again, and she had resisted the urge to lash out at him. Isala kept her face an emotionless mask and stared at him coolly, the gold of her eyes so sharp he took a step back. Clearing his throat, he looked to the other guards to see if any had found weapons. They had not. They seemed disappointed he would not have the excuse to turn the elves away, or better yet arrest them, but the lead guard nodded to the Keeper.

Deygan entered first, and then Isala and the Keeper proceeded, the others at their back. The town was bustling with people, market stalls lining the walls of other shops and houses, the stone walls towering above them. 

The group drew many stares, several hostile, others disgusted, most simply curious. Isala’s own curiosity had given way to nervousness, she kept her eyes down, gazing around from beneath her lashes. Deygan, Cammen, and Theron all kept their eyes on the surroundings; was the flash of silver a knife? Was that shemlen too close? Deshanna held their head high, greeting people with a steady smile.

The lead guard led them to a few empty stalls on the edge of the marketplace and beckoned impatiently for them to set up. They did, displaying furs and newly caught meats, hanging freshly picked herbs as well as dried ones. An array of nuts and berries as well as flowers were set out in small woven baskets. 

Isala knelt and sat cross-legged behind the stall, letting the shadows cast by the furs and hanging game mask her features to those who might peer past the wooden posts to see a Dalish. Deshanna, Theron, and Cammen set out to buy from other stalls, leaving Deygan to guard the stall and perform business transactions with a stony face. Isala felt slightly amused each time a human flinched under the warrior’s gaze. She knew it was wrong to revel in their discomfort but did so nonetheless. 

A few people were drawn in by the scent of herbs and the sight of rich furs, others rushed to buy the meat while it was still fresh. Isala braided flower crowns to set beside the berries, down low so they would catch the eyes of children. Two young children squealed when she set the first few out, scampering away from their mother to grab for them, eyes bright with desire. 

The woman scolded them, and grudgingly placed the coins in Isala’s palm. She stared at her fingers, eyes trailing along them up the arm they belonged to, seeing in the shadows a slender frame with a shock of white hair and eyes so gold they almost seemed to glow. Her eyes widened, and she bought some berries and herbs before rushing the children away, flower crowns crooked atop their heads as their mother glanced repeatedly back to Isala.

She tried to ignore the stares, but people were beginning to notice her as they drew close to the stall, and a few people, not a group but enough, crowded around the stall to peer at her, like she was some sort of display. She kept her face a calm mask, carefully focused on the basket she wove. Was it so odd to be this colorless? Other than her slightly lighter skin, white hair, and golden eyes she had otherwise similar features to her clansmen: slanted eyes, a straight, proud, but slightly sloping nose, full lips, brown skin, and high cheekbones. She was not so different, so why did people feel the need to gawk at her? Weighed down by a sudden sense of shame and frustration, Isala finished the basket and reached up to place it on the stall when a hand shot out to grab her wrist.

She let out a small sound of shock, suppressing the rush of magic that threatened to bubble up and lash out at the stranger. Deygan stiffened, eyes darting to Isala. He saw the stubby fingers wrapped around her wrist and the people that had gathered to gawk from a distance while he had been selling meat and furs. 

He began to turn towards the owner of the hand, but in the corner of his eye, Isala shook her head. Her face still veiled by shadow, she raised her gaze to look at the person who held her wrist, gold eyes reflective in the shadow. The hand’s grip went slack in surprise at the flash and she quickly pulled away.

A hum of whispers erupted in the small gathering, and the owner of the hand’s face came down to look at her, huddled behind the stall. The tanned face and red nose revealed them to be a human farmer, dirt speckled and flushed with drink. Deygan stepped in front of him, blocking the view of Isala. The group muttered and slowly dispersed, their pace quickened by the return of the hunters and Deshanna. Deygan murmured something to the Keeper as they surveyed the scene.

Isala heard the Elvish words: “—shouldn’t have brought—'' and Deshanna stiffened for a moment, eyes shooting to Isala’s, peering up from the shadows. Her mentor offered a gentle smile, but that only reinforced what she had assumed from Deygan’s whispered message; she was a burden, an obstacle for them. 

Isala returned her attention to the basket she was working on, fingers trembling with anxiety, and anger too. She would weave ten baskets, and then return to camp. Theron placed several packs in front of her behind the stall, food and other supplies like poultices and salves for the clan. She huddled behind them.

Her crossed legs had developed a sheen of frost, remnants of her fear reflected by her magic. The entire surface beneath her was ice. She tried to reign in her emotions, willing the ice to break, melt away. It did, gradually, but the frost tipping her toes refused to yield, like armor. Would she never be able to control her magic completely?

Theron eyed her, not the usual flirty once-over, their face now held a dose of annoyed caution. Cammen stayed as far from her as he could, gaze darting around, body almost vibrating with anxiety. She felt her cheeks flush at their behavior, felt the rage bubbling up as magic. Isala pushed it down, biting her lip until it bled. She felt her eyes grow hotter than her cheeks, and blinked quickly. Several moments of silence with interjections of trade between. Isala shoved the finished baskets onto the stall and rose.

Cammen flinched, stepping backwards and Isala felt her body sway with the impact of his reaction. Her gaze shot to the ground. Sometimes she was so distracted with her pursuit of knowledge that she forgot the reaction of her clansmen could be almost as severe as that of humans. She had plenty of experience, didn’t she? With rejection, abandonment, hatred, disgust…it was a wonder she wasn’t immune to it by now. The scars on her wrist tingled and she rubbed the leather braces that covered them. Taking a deep breath Isala walked over to Keeper Deshanna, giving the others a wide berth.

“Keeper, _Ar’ady dara adahlen_ .” She kept her voice low and steady, not wanting to reveal how disappointed she was, how angry. “ _Ar’ir’elvaral_ .” The Keeper’s eyes turned sad and their mouth opened in protest but Isala continued. “ _Itel em ra’ju elvyr’el gira._ ” She could see how much her mentor wanted to protest, to insist that she was not a burden, but the silence that led up to such reassurances conveyed their true feelings. Isala smiled softly, and nodded, turning to pick up their purchases.

“ _Ma’ Sael, melana, ma din'elana dara._ ” Isala gave a wry smile, but reassured the Keeper.

“ _Din’nuven'in, Ar’ju ea’eth. Ar ame soun_.” Deshanna shook their head, salt-and-pepper braid swaying, but eventually conceded. They could not risk any fewer number of combat-ready clan members in a human settlement than they already had. Isala picked up a pack and basket, slinging them over her back and picked up another basket to brace on her hip as she said her goodbyes as she began to walk away from the stall and towards the city gates. She heard Cammen’s nervous voice and what sounded like Deygan and Theron speaking in hushed tones as she walked carefully in a straight line and kept her head and eyes down.

She was nearing the gates now, and Isala could see the stone walls and metal door through her lashes, the guards' armor glinted in the sunlight. She picked up her pace, in a hurry to be away from the stares and the whispers, back in the forest where she could be at peace. With no word spoken by Isala or the guards, the gates opened.

Her body was humming with tension and she flinched when the guards shifted as they walked past. But then she was past the stone walls towering overhead and the sharp gate and the too shiny armor of the city guards. The forest lay ahead of her, path rambling through thickly knit trees, the hum of too many people muted by the city walls. She relaxed, nestling the basket on her shoulder against her head to walk in earnest back to camp.

∞ ∞ ∞ 

The forest had been surprisingly quiet throughout the journey. Its usual sounds seemed to be more muted, and that made her wary. When Isala stopped to refill her waterskin at the stream their party had traveled by earlier, She set her burdens down and sat on the rocks by the water to rest for a moment. She hesitated as she listened, looking around to see what might have scared the larger game away, before turning back to the stream. Isala knew she needed to pace herself, but desperately wanted to return to camp, to be surrounded by the familiar sounds and smells of the clan, then retreat in solitude to explore the forest, wander the Fade...not sit around, still burning from her brush with humans. 

Her fingers danced as she sat on the rock, body thrumming with impatience as she tried to force herself to rest. After a while, Isala had calmed enough to sit still, staring along the stream, entranced by the magic she felt running through the veins of the forest.

She was so focused that she did not notice the rustling of someone coming up behind her, nor the quiet whisper of a dagger leaving its sheathe. A hand tangled in her hair and wrenched her head back. Isala cried out in shock, hands flying up to ward off her attacker, or kill them depending on whether she controlled her mana. Rough hands grabbed her wrists, twisting so she could not aim. She struggled, but the sharp edge at Isala’s throat made her freeze. Her vision, clouded by panic cleared, and she saw her assailants.

A human man stood in front of her, fingers digging into her skin, mouth contorted in a vicious smile. Another stood behind her with a knife pressed against her jugular. She let out a hiss of rage, which only made the grin on the man before her widen, and the other's hands in her hair grip tighter.

Isala opened her mouth but the attacker behind her forced the blade deeper into her throat, drawing blood. Her teeth clicked together as she closed her jaw. The other man leaned close to her, almost as if he was breathing in her fear. She shuddered in disgust. Isala’s mind was racing; what spells could she cast that would diffuse this situation or allow her to escape? As she struggled to think clearly the one behind began to speak into her ear, his breath causing her piercings to jangle as she flinched in repulsion, meaning the dagger kissed her throat more deeply. 

“None of your magic, abomination." _Del’eal_. The elvish word for it seemed to echo in her ears as she registered the meaning. The man in front of her spat at her feet, twisting her wrists until she whimpered. “If you think we fear a lowly knife-ear like you, even with that foul magic,” another twist of her arms, a wrench at her hair as the other man finished his partner's sentence. 

“Then you’re a fool.” Isala inhaled shakily, and tried to keep her voice steady.

“ _Ahn is ra ma nuvena_?” A moment of silence, she realized she had spoken in Elvish and cursed internally, repeating her question in common. "What is it you want?" Isala saw the human's eyes trained past her, presumably having a silent conversation with his counterpart. 

She opened her mouth to speak again but the man raised a hand and brought it down in a powerful backhand. Isala felt her mouth fill with blood, her cheek cut. He snatched up her arm again and met the eyes of his partner. Isala’s head was pounding with the shock of the situation and being hit, her mind racing. This couldn’t be happening, these woods were supposed to be safe, she was one of The People, Dalish, stronger than this, she was the First to the Keeper. This situation should not be possible!

Her attackers seemed to have been talking with one another as Isala’s mind had gone white with panicked thoughts. Now his gaze dropped to her lips, swollen and bleeding. He took out one of his daggers, her hands now bound with hunting twine. The human drew the blade down the center of her bottom lip, slicing a thin, clean line. She felt the blood trickle down her chin, falling softly onto her leather chest guard, she knew that it would scar. He laughed as she flinched, his partner echoing the chuckle. 

“What do we want ? We want to rid the world of scum like you. You're a disease is what you are. An infection. The Order may have rules but we're not in uniform at the moment." A grating laugh. "Lucky for us, if not for you." She fought the urge to panic and struggle frantically. They were templars, is that how they'd known she was a mage? And they wanted to erase her, stamp her out like so many of The People before her, and after her, and in this very moment as she still struggled to live-- _Ma ane din’isalem._

The echo of her parents' words in her mind kickstarted Isala’s brain. She knew her choices, the possibilities of death or whatever they intended were beyond what she could weigh at the time. But she knew that their touch made that old anger, raw and uncontrollable, burn in her veins, cold and unforgiving, every inch of her power itching to lash out. Could she do it without physically casting? With nothing to aim with?

She would have to find out, because the magic was already rising, Isala’s body convulsed. Ice erupted from the ground all around her, the stream freezing as the men cried out in pain and surprise, their feet frozen to the ground, ice stabbing through their light leather armor. The human in front of her fell sideways while the other fell back, his dagger cutting a neat crescent across Isala’s throat. 

Her eyes rolled up in shock; she could feel the blood, hot and thick escaping too fast. Panicked, she brought her hands to her cut throat, the ice coating her fingertips and encasing her neck, quenching the bleeding for now. He had not cut an artery, nor her windpipe. If she could escape, stop the bleeding—The man behind her roared, grabbing for Isala as she staggered between the templars. The other human was already hacking with his knife at the ice around his calves, snarling his rage as she scrambled past them.

Isala ran as fast as she could, darting between trees, well away from the path back to camp. Could she go back to the clan? Keeper Deshanna and the others were not there to stop the templars, and she couldn't draw them back to her kinsman. 

She stumbled over tree roots and vaulted over fallen trunks. Should she return to the city? They were templars, not guardsmen, but could she rely on the justice of human morality and laws? The enraged roars of both men some distance behind her discouraged those thoughts and Isala looked around frantically. Could she hide? Perhaps find a cave or climb a tree? She opted for a cave first, she doubted these men were agile climbers, but few would go into a dark cave without preparation. 

Isala scanned the trees for the slope of a hill, a bed of rocks, any hint that a cave could be nearby. She saw a slight incline in the grasses to her right and sprinted upwards, seeing the ground flatten and curve forward. After a few minutes of panicked running she came to the edge, and leapt below. It was a short fall for someone with Isala’s reflexes and she dropped down gingerly, then spun around. 

She was in luck, for once. It was a cave, not too deep that it would be hiding a serious threat, with a large boulder to the right of the opening. Stalactites hung from the roof of the cavern like icicles, their jagged shape a reassurance. Isala ran inside the entrance, and froze when she heard the muffled shouting of the templars in the distance. She could not simply sit here and hope they would not find her trail, she had not erased it, too anxious in her escape.

It was difficult to breathe with the ice at her throat holding flesh together and keeping blood at bay and Isala’s labored breaths were loud enough to alert anyone keeping a careful ear. She stared at the rock beside the opening. She had not been trained in telekinetic magic before, but would have to begin her training now. As she began though, the templars rounded the hill, letting out whoops of victory and snarls of anger as they spotted her. Not thinking, panic and instinct taking over, she reacted, throwing her hands up to protect herself, magic lashing out to follow through.

Roots sprung up from the ground, ripping through the earth to coil around Isala's attackers like large snakes, barbs growing and cutting through their flesh as they screamed in pain and fear, cursing her and her kind. She heard the sound of bones crunching as the men were squeezed, the scent of blood hot and oppressive against her nose. Their cries died out as she tried to withdraw the magic, but it was too late. Their broken bodies laid before her, the roots that had killed them slithering back into the earth to return to their origins, now watered in the blood of the templars. They had not been innocent, but she had not wanted them dead.

_Had she?_

She hung there for a moment, frozen in place before a distant cry jolted her back to reality and what she had done. She couldn't be sure these two were the only ones. They were templars after all, perhaps the entire force from the city was in on it. Even if they weren't, wouldn't they eventually come in search of their missing comrades? She had to do something about the bodies, had to hide--as Isala tried to decide what to do, the roots rose from the ground again, this time carrying back into the earth the broken bodies of her attackers. She fell back in surprise, hands going to her chest as though to shield herself. Had she done that? She would have to worry about it later. Now she needed to guard herself and hide away in case of new dangers.

Isala turned back to the mouth of the cave and the giant boulder, and wrestled out of her bonds as she positioned her feet shoulder-width apart. She stretched out her arms, fingers clawed, her palms facing up as she willed the boulder to move, move, move . Her forehead beaded with sweat, her throat throbbing, body nearly convulsing from the pain until she felt like she was going to scream , and then suddenly, the large rock floated in the air, as light as a feather. Isala took a few gasping breaths of relief before she directed the boulder in front of the entrance, blocking out everything; the only light shining through the small spaces between rock and cave wall. 

She fell to her knees and collapsed against the cold, damp walls of the cave. Her fingers fumbled for her dagger as she panted softly. She cut off some fabric from her underclothes and willed the ice around her neck to melt away. 

The blood came gushing forth and Isala hurriedly wrapped the fabric around the wound. A weak healing incantation, willing the skin to kiss itself back together. When she felt the heat of the magic at her throat Isala let her body go limp, but refused to faint. She needed to stay alert in case more templars came. Alone in a cold, dank cave meant contemplation and memories, the combination of which were rarely pleasant for Isala.

It had been a few years since the last attempt on her life. She had been abandoned and attacked several times before this, not including when her parents abandoned her as a child. What was so wrong with her that this continued to happen? Isala’s breath gradually slowed, panic and adrenaline fading, but making the pain of her injuries more sharp. She let out a shaky laugh, this incident made eight, at least it was a round number again.

Trying not to think about her past, Isala’s eyes turned to scan the shallow cavern. Scatterings of deep mushroom and glowing organisms made her elven vision unnecessary. The soft song of water on rock echoed in the narrow space, and the ground seemed to thrum with hidden energy.

She let out a long, slow breath and melted against the stone wall. The templars’ screams that had been echoing in her mind could no longer be heard. She felt her eyelids grow heavier; the last traces of adrenaline had fled her veins, leaving only exhaustion and pain in its wake, she felt herself slipping into sleep, and embraced the reprieve. _Please let me dream_ , she pleaded.

∞ ∞ ∞

The Fade was a solace for her; it’s fluid and yet straightforward nature something Isala could understand better than most other mortals. The surreal echo of reality felt softer than the harshness of the corporeal realm; like it was faded at the edges. 

Isala exited the cave and advanced calmly through the forest; a few glowing forms of spirits floating slowly and calmly nearby. Everything here felt softer, more muted, and yet more real and comfortable to her than everyday life and its various pains and joys.

The Keeper said Isala was likely _Somniari_ or _Erelan_ ; a Dreamer. The presence of demons often caused Isala pain; an indescribable mental and physical discomfort when in their presence, and also a heart-wrenching sorrow and regret for the knowledge that they had been warped against their original purpose. Because of this, she had trained herself to control her emotions in the Fade as well, lest her heart influence the spirits she encountered.

She centered herself, concentrating on drawing into her own core; not letting the wisps of fear, anger, and despair that clawed to escape from her trickle out from her slightly blurred Fade form. Once she was centered, she took another look at her surroundings. 

Isala walked further from the cave and scanned the forest for something to distract herself with while she waited for aid, or for enough time to pass. Perhaps she could ask a spirit to help her tell the Keeper she was in danger. As she considered this, Isala’s physical form stiffened from the sharp bolt of pain she felt, white-hot in her mind. Perhaps the templars’ cruel thoughts had warped into or drawn a demon nearby. Perhaps her own violent acts had. No matter what, the pain meant she was not safe in the Fade either, and she sighed at the realization. 

She moved away from the source of her pain and focused her senses on thinking gently of assistance. Isala avoided directly calling for spirits or asking things of them lest she accidentally manipulate them; no matter her experience in the Fade or with spirits, she knew it was best to be cautious. Even though she was unsure whether she agreed with all of the superstitions and beliefs some of the Dalish held, her clan in particular, there was no sense in being reckless; especially when it could put others at risk. 

As her mind wandered, Isala felt a vague tug in the back of her mind, as though something softly vied for her attention. She turned towards the sensation to see a faint glowing form appearing several feet in front of her, slightly hidden behind a pair of bonded trees. Isala called out a gentle greeting, but did not advance. Distance was unsure in the Fade, and she did not want to intimidate the spirit. 

The tug came again, as though beckoning her forward. The glowing form shifted to resemble a vaguely mortal shape, seeming to appear with a head, arms, and torso. Was it a wisp? Isala advanced as it beckoned again, and this time she felt a stronger connection; this was a spirit more substantial than a wisp. She had sensed stronger spirits in her journeys in the Fade before, but had not made contact for fear of entering a trap, or corrupting them with her mortal flaws and emotions. This one, though, seemed to want to help--or at least communicate. She took another step forward and the form began to float towards her as well, fluid and changing in color and shape.

“I greet you” Isala kept her voice soft and her tone gentle, not wanting to frighten or aggravate the spirit, and it rose up higher above the forest floor of the Fade, shape further fluctuating like the lapping of water. She worried for a moment that she may have caused it harm before it spoke, voice as fluid as it’s form. 

“ _And we you. You seek aid, Elvhen?_ ” Isala felt a warmth in her chest at the title. 

“Only if you are willing to give it, and I can give something in return.” The spirit swelled again, she wondered if maybe it was a sign it was pleased, if a spirit could feel such things. 

“ _We would give it, we would render aid, we would ask for naught._ ” Isala cocked her head, perhaps this was a spirit of Compassion? She knew such spirits were fairly rare, but usually spirits wanted something in return for help, unless they were too weak or ambivalent. 

“Is there nothing I could do? I may be willing.” The spirit hesitated, then drifted back to the trees it had emerged from. 

“ _Touch. Seek_.” Isala obeyed, walking forward and placing her hands on each trunk of the trees, twisted together as an eternal pair. She felt images racing through her; memories of how the trees grew and melded with one another, those that had passed by their roots and all they had seen through centuries. If she had been there physically she would have fallen to her knees with the force of the visions, but in the Fade Isala felt elation and sorrow in one. Finally the images ended, a sensation of satisfaction or contentment lingering around her. She lifted her gaze to the spirit, hovering between the trees’ upper trunks. She could feel a distinct air of gratification, and smiled at it.

“ _Ma serannas_.” The spirit nodded solemnly and Isala offered a silent prayer and thanks to the Creators for the boon the spirit had granted her.

Apparently satisfied with her witness as payment, the spirit once again materialized in front of Isala. She did not need to explain what she sought, the spirit simply left to inform Keeper Deshanna in one way or another. Isala hoped the Keeper would not be too shocked by communications via a spirit messenger. 

Clearing her mind of that worry, Isala continued her journey in the Fade, knowing that the Keeper and aid would come, and all the chaos as a consequence of her earlier tribulations could be dealt with then.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Elvish featured in my writing is my pathetic attempt to use available resources, and you should assume they are either vague approximations or completely incorrect. Clan Lavellan speaks solely in Elvish, but for the purposes of not making this completely unreadable, it will be mixed in for consistency, but not solely Elvish with translations at the end.
> 
> Elvish featured in text:  
> Garas (come)  
> Ma athlanem sul em (you called for me)  
> din’eth (not safe)  
> Mar melana emen garas. Ma dara shemlen mor’vharlaan(your time has come. you will go to the shemlen city)  
> On Nydha (good night)  
> Sael (First)  
> On dhea (good morning)  
> Iras (where)  
> Ar’ady dara adahlen (I should go to the forest)  
> Ar’ir’elvaral (I make things more difficult)  
> Itel em ra’ju elvyr’el gira (without me it will be easier to buy)  
> Ma'Sael, melana, Borean i Nerien dara i’ma (my first, wait, you can not go alone)  
> Din’nuven'in, Ar’ju ea’eth. Ar ame soun (no need, I will be fine. I am strong)  
> del’eal (wrong being//mistake)  
> Ma ane din’isalem (you are not needed)
> 
> *For context: Isala's name means "need" in Elvish.


	2. CHAPTER II: Esh'var Shiral

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Due to restlessness and a burning desire to learn, Isala sets out on her own to travel through the Free Marches researching elven history and exploring elven ruins. Years have passed since she left her beloved clan to learn about their people's history, but excitement over recent discoveries draws Isala back home. However, relationships with the people we love are not always simple.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Esh'var Shiral (Their journey)
> 
> It's a time skip! There are a few because I have no consistency. It's also a slow chapter but tune in for angst at the end...I'm obsessed with elves being able to discover and learn about their history so expect more of this kind of thing

**{9:34 Dragon}**

The sweet, cloying scent of earth and wet moss was a rich bouquet to wake to, and a comforting smell despite its reminder that the realm in which Isala lived was painfully corporeal. A head of tousled white hair rose from the furs she had laid out the night before, gold eyes scanning her surroundings as Isala debated whether to try and sleep more or to wake and explore. 

The ruins Isala had been studying the past few weeks appeared to have likely been built in ancient times, but last occupied in the Glory Age before the time when Halamshiral was conquered. Her dreams the past nights she had slept among the ruins had been fascinating, but rife with memories both painfully happy and exhaustingly anguished. She could sense the spirits in the cracked structure as though they were pressing against the veil, and had even seen a veil tear in the caverns of the ruins. As much as Isala loved the Fade she knew better than to venture near a tear in the veil; it was all too easy to accidentally exercise excessive influence on spirits made more vulnerable by those tenuous areas and she would not risk it. 

As Isala packed up her furs, rolling them neatly to fit snugly in her woven basket, she took another look around the ruins. Grand ogee arches and intricately welded grates guarding crevices holding aged shrines and crumbling offerings. Her surroundings seemed faded in the glow of morning mist and the filtered sunlight of early dawn. The structure was laden with plant life, the mosaiced floor mostly masked by long grass and wildflowers, and the walls clad in climbing vines and thick moss. The faded mosaics of The Creators yet remained, worn by age and possibly abuse from embittered humans. An image of Ghilan’nain had been almost completely destroyed, only the horns and her outstretched hands remained, the rest of the stones seemed to have been pried away and lay crushed on the ground beneath it. The offering Isala had laid in front of the ruined icon the night before was still there, as though the wildlife dared not touch it. 

The ceilings of the structure had long since fallen away one way or another and Isala could see the sky above through the canopy of branches and foliage from the forest in which the ruins rested. The faint glow of dawn grew steadily brighter, causing the dew on the grass to sparkle and the mist to seem more opaque. She took a moment to revel in the beauty of the space, drinking in the rich fragrance of the forest, the mist refreshing on her sleep-taut face. Isala stretched as she took in a deep breath, her mind already racing as she planned how to spend the rest of the day. She picked up her basket and fastened the woven lid close, slipping an arm through one of the straps so she could carry it with ease as she moved into the heart of the ruins. 

Based on what Isala had found, it seemed that the structure had likely been a place of worship for Elven people at some point. Given the amount of offerings and the carvings in Elvish she had found depicting legends of the Creators, it had been a space for reverence and a place to ask for guidance. Many of the carved words appeared to be prayers or simple parables, though they were not the ones Isala had been taught in the clan. In addition to spaces for rites, however, the structure occupied far more space than other temples she had studied in her travels, and areas that seemed reminisce of living spaces suggested it had been some kind of temple with a complex for people to live. 

The ruins spanned almost a mile when measuring its length walking alongside its walls, but it had several floors and annexes as well as towers that breached the forest canopy. Even more precious though, was the discovery Isala was circling back to examine again, a treasure hidden in the heart of the ruins that made her giddy with excitement. 

Bare feet glided over crumbling moss softened steps, the only sounds came from birdsong and the movement of the forest. Isala paused to place an offering before a statue of Mythal, the figure’s masked face impassable and winged arms outstretched, before she continued to make her way into an antechamber, walking gingerly so as to not unduly disturb the plants that had taken hold in the stone floors. The swelling glow of dawn had broken through the forest cover and chasmed ceilings to light up her find with a golden aura. 

In the center of a chamber that had been hidden by protective glyphs and an overgrown vine curtain was an eluvian, its gilded frame bright like molten fire in the morning light. It’s glass surface seemed to warp with reflections and rays of sun, colors moving across its surface like waves lapping at the land, but dull beneath the shimmer. For a moment Isala just stared reverently at the mirror, lying on its side against crumbling stone pillars that had fallen centuries ago due to unknown forces or the passage of time. Circling around the pillars faint etchings in Elvish were barely visible, wildflowers and vines climbing on their stone as though embracing them. 

Isala once again had to choke back tears. When she had first uncovered the eluvian while researching the ruins she had fallen to her knees and wept with the weight of what her people had lost and what she had just found. Everything in her felt like it was screaming when she looked at this piece of their culture, equal parts joy and rage and grief, all vying to escape her body as she reeled in front of this precious artifact. Isala clenched her fists until her nails drew blood, and then relaxed, inhaling deeply and closing her eyes to calm herself. 

It had taken a great deal of willpower to resist sleeping beside it the previous night, but Isala could not take any risks of disturbing the relic, even with the vice-like control she had cultivated over her magic. Despite the research Isala had done with the Keeper and Merrill, they had yet to discover how eluvians were locked or unlocked, nor the extent of what they could do. This one was obviously inactive, but Isala was uncertain whether it was broken or simply required some sort of trigger or key to activate it. They knew that eluvian possessed great power and could grant access to incredible knowledge, but there was no sense in being reckless, particularly if it would put such a precious artifact at risk. 

Isala had briefly debated whether to attempt to bring the eluvian back to the clan so the Keeper could examine it further and it could be researched more extensively at the next _Arlathven_ , but she could not bear to remove the relic from its home. Despite this being a precious piece of her own heritage Isala refused to plunder the remnants of Elvhenan that she researched. She only ever removed small pieces for study that would not impact the ruins and took etchings and detailed notes rather than disturb the vestiges of her people’s history. Isala had returned to the chamber not only to once again experience the rapture of being near the eluvian, but to study it and the room where it rested further. 

In her dreams the night before when she had explored the Fade’s reflection of the ruins and its history she had observed Elves from drastically different ages communing with the Creators, fending off violent attacks by unknown assailants, and even interacting with the eluvian. What was seen in the Fade was open to interpretation, of course, especially since what was reflected in the Fade was a fluid melding of perceptions and memories. 

Those who had appeared to use the eluvian had seemed to move through it, as though the mirror was not physically present; there would be a warped glow and sometimes a bright light before the figure before the seeing glass would disappear. Sometimes in the place of the Eluvian there seemed to be a path; a long winding road that seemed to fluctuate and dissipate. Other times the surface of the mirror seemed to ripple; when Isala had examined it in the Fade from another angle, it had almost appeared to be reflecting scenery that wasn’t there; as though it was not reflective but rather projective, showing a potential scenery or...

Where others would have sighed in frustration or given up Isala was elated by the uncertainty, her curiosity causing her to almost vibrate as she took etchings of the carved Elvish and drew sketches of the eluvian and its details. When she had finished, or at least tired her wrist to the point where she could no longer hold her writing utensil, Isala rolled up her notes and tied them with a piece of leather string before slipping them into her basket. 

In turn, she drew out a topographical map of the Free Marches, one she had drawn herself to record her travels. Isala marked the approximate location on the map and turned the hide over to jot down some notes about the area. With her fingers so sore her writing was messy, but she still wrote a warning to be careful of some of the more aggressive wildlife and that others should not to consume the azure berries that grew with leaves of three as they were hallucinogenic at best and at worst, poisonous. She didn't write how she knew, call it the pursuit of knowledge.

That task finished Isala rocked back on her heels where she had been kneeling before leaning against her basket, now so filled with notes, furs, herbs, clothing, and other supplies that the weaving she had done appeared rather taut with strain. When she fastened the lid closed after slipping the dried map away Isala almost thought she could feel the leather groan. It had been quite some time since she had last visited the clan, and she should inform the Keeper about all she had learned the past several months, particularly her latest find.

Resolved, though reluctant to leave the ruins, Isala busied herself with reorganizing the contents of her basket to ensure she hadn’t missed anything, as well as collect some more materials for offerings. She would spend one more night in this place that was unknown and yet familiar, and then she would set out to return to the clan, something she was in no hurry to do. Isala did not let herself be idle despite the lack of urgent tasks to complete before her impending journey. She explored the ruins more freely now that she did not feel compelled to stop and record everything she saw. Now that her itch to study had been calmed Isala could calm her excitement heightened senses and take her time in a different manner from her intent and meticulous research attitude, instead exploring solely for the sake of wonderment. Isala shifted from studious enjoyment to serene observation and felt her body relax as well. The soft ply of moss and the sun warmed stone beneath her feet accompanied by the luscious scent of the forest was intoxicating and she idled on her way to her destination. 

After enjoying more of her surroundings Isala arrived in an antechamber of the ancient temple complex that seemed to be a dedicated ritual chamber. In the center of the room there was a platform with a concave space in the center, it’s hollowed out shape forming a basin filled with crystal clear water, somehow unclouded despite centuries of wildlife and the passage of time. In the center of the pool was a brass pitcher, intricate motifs of vines and leaves impressed upon the glossy surface, also seemingly unblemished. A small distance from the platform in the hub of the chamber was a stone altar in an alcove of the wall, carved and appearing untouched. Isala had come across the alcove and its mysterious contents a day earlier but had not attempted to enact the ritual. Before she would try it, she had decided to study the chamber and had taken notes on the details of the room and the actions depicted on a carved tablet that was embedded in the wall behind the altar. 

The ancient Elvish had been difficult to interpret and the scene depicted could only convey so much after centuries of wear and generational gaps in knowledge inheritance. Even though Isala had dedicated herself to learning about the Elven language and history there was an undeniable limit to what she could glean from ancient, half-destroyed, or incomplete records and oral histories. Written ancient Elvish was something she and many other Dalish she had met at the last Arlathven struggled with due to lack of access and a myriad of other barriers that frustrated Isala to no end. The modern Elvish she knew was similar, but different enough that some things were still lost or unable to be interpreted.

Still, she had managed to understand most of the text and interpret the rest based on context and experience. The intent behind the ritual was still too ambiguous for Isala to know with certainty what it was meant to accomplish, but she had weighed the most likely possibilities and had deemed it safe to carry out. Even if she had not been confident that the ritual would do her no harm she likely would have carried it out anyway. Despite Isala’s usual calm and quiet demeanor, she could slip into a fervor when it came to knowledge, her intense passion for learning often leading her to discard her more cautious nature and act recklessly, at least, according to Keeper Deshanna. Now, though, away from the clan with no immediate responsibilities to carry out, Isala could take all the time she desired to explore and ruminate to her contentment. Since she would need to leave the ruins early the next morning, the opportunity to attempt the ritual was not something that could be denied or postponed, lest she never have another chance. 

Isala got down on one knee to gingerly pick up the ewer from the pool, making sure it was empty, and walked over to the altar adjacent to the platform. With the mysterious pool of water behind her, she placed the vessel on the altar and knelt in front of the ancient stone. It was made of the same material as the rest of the ruins but like the liquid in the platform’s basin it appeared immaculate. Yet, unlike the etchings of the pool’s receptacle, the details of the altar appeared faded by age, gold and green material that had once been grand was chipped away on its borders and the intricate carvings seemed to be worn. There was an engraved icon in the face of the altar that was too faint for Isala to make out the image but she could see vague details of an animal-like shape, stylized but possibly a dragon or a halla based on what appeared to be horns or antlers of some kind. 

She shifted back on her heels for a moment in discomfort over not knowing who she was praying to. Isala had always been flexible about religious belief but she believed in the Creators. She also believed Andraste existed and the Maker could possibly exist, but that they were likely not divine. Still, Isala was fairly spiritual and prayed to the Creators, her fluid beliefs were tempered by her curious and unbiased nature but still present. It was better to be respectful of all powers, including those that could not be seen or proven. Her theological ruminations had made her vaguely restless and Isala issued a quick prayer to the Creators asking for their understanding, just to be safe.

Prior formalities taken care of, Isala began to carry out the rite she had read on the tablet. She resumed her kneeling position and bowed her head, white tendrils of hair sliding over her shoulders to veil her face. She offered a generic prayer, one to offer greetings and beseech aid; in her case knowledge and understanding. There was an odd shift in the air within the chamber, an aura of what almost felt like approval. Isala pushed down the buzz of excitement that threatened to make her body vibrate and continued with the ritual. 

She stood from her kneeling position and reached to take the pitcher that she had retrieved from the pool and placed on the altar, its gold colored metal almost warm to the touch. Isala lifted it from the carved stone and placed a precious item of hers in exchange; a placeholder as insurance. An intricately carved comb made of bone now laid on the spot where the pitcher had been, and feeling no sense of wrongness, Isala continued the ritual. 

She walked a few paces back to the platform and knelt again, this time in front of the pool of crystalline water. As was depicted on the tablet Isala dipped the pitcher in the pool and dragged it gently through the surface of the water, admiring the detail of the basin as she did so, abstract shapes seeming to glitter beneath its liquid boon. Once the pitcher was full Isala rose to her feet and returned to the altar, exchanging the vessel for her comb. 

Again, Isala went on her knees in front of the carved stone and offered another prayer asking for knowledge and guidance. Again the room filled with an aura of rightness to the extent that she felt an almost imperceptible draw towards the altar, as though the ritual induced a sort of geas upon the participant. Still Isala continued, finishing the rite by taking a single sip from the pitcher before pouring the remaining water back into the pool it had come from, and placing the vessel back into the center of the basin.

After completing the ritual Isala felt lighter, as though she had been refreshed or freed from some unseen burden. The aura of approval remained within the ritual chamber and even the rest of the ruins felt more welcoming somehow, as though she had been tested and had succeeded. Perhaps because of this, the day seemed to pass quickly and it wasn’t long before Isala felt the cool damp of twilight air as the day faded away and night began its ascent. 

Resigned that the dusk was settling in, Isala was surprised to find she had suddenly begun to feel tired. She wanted to continue exploring, but knew that, despite her Elven vision, she would not be able to wander when it grew dark. This forest was still unfamiliar with likely hidden dangers, and Isala loved to explore the Fade anyway. She hoped that the wonders shown to her this night would be less heart wrenching than those she had seen the night before, but felt curious and eager nonetheless. Arranging her furs on a moss-covered patch of stone, Isala settled in to sleep for the evening, staring up at the darkening sky framed by the open ceiling. The faded emerald green mosaic tiles glimmered alongside the stars that emerged as her eyelids grew heavy. The moon slipped out from behind dwindling clouds, a waxing crescent that gave off a muted glow against the deep blue of the sky as it faded to black and Isala drifted off to sleep. 

Her consciousness shifted as she entered the Fade, her form glowing slightly as the surroundings rippled and sounds echoed deeper than before. Isala luxuriated in the sensation of entering the Fade, turning her face up as she had done to the morning mist. Finished drinking in the transition, she stood up from where her Fade form had been sitting on her furs and wandered the ruins. At one point she entered the ritual room with the mysterious pool to see if she could sense anything different in the Fade. The aura of approval was not present, but Isala witnessed memories of others attempting the ritual. She could not see the results upon its completion per say but she could feel the atmosphere in the chamber shift from affirmation to wrongness and even wrath or anger. 

Uncomfortable with the vertigo from the constant shifting of what she sensed in the room, Isala left, instead following a draw that whispered in the back of her mind. This sensation was familiar; likely a spirit of some kind. Demons caused Isala pain so she almost always knew when they were nearby, but there seemed little reason to be overly-cautious as the area of the Fade in which she wandered felt tranquil. She continued to drift towards the presence she sensed, her curiosity growing as she drew near; this spirit felt different from others she had encountered in the past. Isala arrived in a large hall in the center of the ruins, vaulted ceilings still almost completely solid with the exception of a large hole in the center that showed the sky as reflected by the Fade, moon huge and tinted green. Haloed by the light emanating from the opening was a glowing shape, vaguely resembling a skeleton, its aspect fluid as though the entity was trying to decide on what appearance to take on. 

Isala waited patiently for the spirit to decide, admiring the beautiful glimmer of its form as it warped and changed. Finally the spirit seemed to settle on a contour and its shifting stilled, taking on the form of an Elf. Its features remained fluid, but appeared to have committed to this shape, so Isala spoke.

“I greet you and hope my presence does you no harm.” Its countenance shifted enough to reveal a smile and it spoke, tone layered with the voices of many.

“ _One so careful does little harm. You are a seeker, yet your hunger pulls not. What is it you seek?_ ” 

“Knowledge, understanding, and far more selfish desires.” Something like a laugh came from the spirit and Isala tilted her head, slightly confused by this interaction. She was comfortable interacting with spirits and wished to do so more, but this entity almost felt like it was closer to a person.

“ _You harbor such and yet the only thing we sensed was your thirst, a yearning that echoed of past dynasties, of lost lore, of forgotten secrets._ ” 

“Who are you?”

“ _We are curiosity sated. We are questions answered. We are insight. We are all these things and more._ ” Her heart leapt at the spirit’s words but she reigned in her emotions, not wanting to accidentally exert undue influence. Another smile flitted across its features and even its resounding voice seemed amused. “ _Your thirst does not sway us, Elvhen, not in the way you fear. Come forth and ask, we shall answer all we know._ ” 

Isala asked.

∞ ∞ ∞ 

The weeks that had passed since she had communed with Wisdom had felt like a blur on her journey to return to Clan Lavellan. Isala had been anxious to inform the Keeper of what had transpired, all she had learned; the knowledge she newly possessed felt like it would engulf her, so eager she was to share it with her people. Now she stood at the edge of camp, having explained what she had discovered and how she had conferred with the spirit and her clan was silent. Those whose faces were raised wore expressions that ranged from disbelief, to wary fear, to horror. 

Isala hadn’t expected the people of her clan to accept everything immediately, she hadn’t even expected all of them to agree with her methods. These were the reactions she had expected, but she still felt disappointed, and perhaps a bit ashamed. Isala loved her clan dearly, and they loved her, but that did not mean they agreed on everything. Still, there was _so_ much to learn...Her eyes rested on the Keeper, who was studiously keeping their gaze towards the stave they turned over in calloused hands, silent. Isala’s body felt as though she was vibrating, adrenaline pumping through her as she teetered on the edge waiting for her mentor’s reaction. Finally Deshanna looked up and met her eyes, their answer written on familiar features, age lines in their russet skin seeming to have deepened with grief. 

“ _Ar eolasa or hartha mar nehn da'len. thuast ar'an nadas tel’din dirtha i elgar_.” 

Everything in Isala felt like it was dropping through her feet to the ground where it shattered. Was the Keeper saying this in truth or was it to keep peace with those of the clan who were cautious or outright opposed? At that moment it didn’t matter. No matter the Keeper’s intentions Isala’s chest was like ice, heavy and cold even as her cheeks burned with shame in front of her clan members. From her frozen core anger whipped out like a flame and the words left her mouth before her mind completed the transition from pain to indignation. 

“ _Esh'an ane tel’elvar'nas. Ar'an elana dirthal ir, ahnsul diana el inan?_ ” The Keeper did not waver, green eyes dark with emotions that Isala could not interpret in that moment, so swayed by what felt to her like rejection. All she had shared with her mentor and her clan, all they had sought out together and the bond they had forged now felt like the splintering of a broken branch fraying and pulling away as the cracks deepened. 

“ _Ha viren elana ena'las tuast viren._ _Ar’an tel’ama_ _diana fra ahn ar’an ema laimen, ar'an elana esaya itha sul vena sal. Is mah tel el dirtha’var’en?_ Is that not our purpose?” Isala repeated the last words in common to try and drive the point home, _will_ them to understand, for _someone_ to _understand_. Deshanna’s voice answered her desperation with no emotion, just a wall built up between them.

“Our focus is to survive.” Isala scanned the faces of her people, most of whom had their eyes averted. The anger that swelled inside her suddenly quieted into muted embers of disappointment, as though doused in cold water. She met her mentor’s gaze, golden eyes staring out at the faces of her clan, throat so tight she felt as though it was being crushed. The words that left Isala’s lips came out smooth and free of the heavy emotions roiling inside her, crossing with ease over that un-breachable distance.

“But we _deserve_ to live.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Clan Lavellan in my canon has been through *a lot* and holds some superstitious biases as a result (that is not to say this applies to all Dalish! At all. This is also based on my personal experience with my heritage.). It's difficult when the people we love hold different views on how to deal with or preserve our cultures and histories.  
> Shout-out to anyone who recognized the Dragon Age Origins reference
> 
> Elvish featured in text:  
> Ar eolasa or hartha mar nehn da'len [I understand your joy)  
> Thuast ar'an nadas tel’din dirtha i elgar(but we must not speak with spirits)  
> Esh'an ane tel’elvar'nas (they are not evil)  
> Ar'an elana dirthal ir, ahnsul diana el inan (we can learn much, why must we shut our eyes)  
> Ha viren elana ena'las tuast viren (the Old Ways can foster new ways)  
> Ar’an tel’ama diana fra ahn ar’an ema laimen, ar'an elana esaya itha sul vena sal (we do not have to stop at what we lost, we can search for what we can regain)  
> Is mah tel el dirtha’var’en (is that not our purpose)
> 
> *if anyone reads this and is willing to let me know; is it easier for you if I have Elvish in the notes at the bottom, or would you prefer them at the top despite spoilers? I tried to have it in-text but I thought that just made it more confusing


	3. CHAPTER III: Av’ahna a Enasthe

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Time has passed since Isala had last visited the clan. During that period her knowledge and skills have expanded, now she is called to return where it seems the Keeper has something they want to ask...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Av’ahna a Enasthe (to ask for a favor)
> 
> Translations for Elvish are in the end notes

**{9:40 Dragon}**

It had been a few months since Isala had made her last visit the clan and she couldn't decide on feeling elated or nervous. At the moment, she just felt nauseous. She remained in fairly consistent contact with Keeper Deshanna, but for the most part had immersed herself in explorations of the Fade and Elven ruins throughout the Free Marches. The previous homecoming from a few years past had been to inform Deshanna and her clan of what she had learned by conversing with spirits in the Fade. That had not gone over well and the memory of the rejection, as well as the events that followed, still stung. Still, Isala’s mentor had apologized and they were slowly working on mending their relationship and rebuilding trust. She loved her clan and mentor, and knew that even if they disagreed on methods their bonds and trust went beyond such things. It did not mean those differences were painless or not a source of conflict, but it was reassuring to know that her clan was her community, her family, no matter what. This homecoming, however, was not of Isala's own volition. The Keeper had summoned her back, asking for news from her and seemed to be hinting at a request.

Now, Isala was walking through the forest in the territory below the Green Dales and above the Minanter River where Clan Lavellan was currently settled. Their diplomatic relations with human settlements and careful toeing of the borders of city-states in the Free Marches usually afforded them safety from attack. At the moment, however, they were traveling more urgently with less stays of encampment than before, steadily trying to make their way Northeast, farther from Kirkwall and the chaotic tension and aftermath of recent events that still resonated years later.

As Isala considered all of the pandemonium that had rippled through Thedas after the rebellion, she sent out a sensing spell to make sure she was headed in the right direction. Before her magic confirmed it, however, Isala picked up the sounds of the clan and couldn’t help but smile. Returning was always bittersweet; she did not feel as though she was truly accepted and yet she _belonged_. She treasured the familiarity of her people, and their intent to preserve their culture and traditions, even if they didn't always agree.

Pushing forward out of the mouth of the woods, Isala moved her pack to one shoulder, using her stave as a crutch to help her move more quickly over the plains towards a small glen lined with trees following the bustle of Clan Lavellan. When she maneuvered through the brush to the opening of the meadow at the rounded out end of the narrow valley it did not take long for her clansmen to take notice of her. It was, of course, not a lively reunion but all offered their greetings to her, all of their welcomes sincere. The children she had met on her last visit came up to offer more eager welcomes and she satisfied them with trinkets she had brought. Deygan was in the crowd as well, greeting her as his partner offered to carry her bags. She smiled at them, but declined, instead asking about the child they had taken in, and other recent news. 

Out of the corner of her eye Isala could see Theron leaning over another whose back was against one of the trees. They were smirking but the expression fell away when they looked up to see what the disturbance was. The arm they had by their courtship partner's head almost slipped when they saw Isala, who suppressed a snort. Theron's partner looked up as well, and Isala’s amusement faded away when she saw it was Ellowen. Green eyes seemed to yellow with ire at the sight of her homecoming, and russet vallaslin of Andruil crumpled as Ellowen glared in Isala’s direction before tugging on Theron’s armor to recover their attention. Isala did not know why the other hated her so, but was content to leave be.

Pushing irrelevant thoughts aside, Isala continued to make her way through the encampment, exchanging greetings and offering gifts. As she neared the center, a familiar higher-pitched voice called out to her, it was Cammen. He had grown taller and had filled out into his armor since they had last met, but he still retained his puppy-like persona. She smiled at him and he smiled back nervously, less fearful of her than he had been when she was a teenager, it seemed.

“ _Vhalla arla!_ ” 

“ _Ra’on ea’arla_.” From behind Cammen came another hunter, Hauen. Isala offered them a cautious smile, never sure how they felt towards her. They fiddled with the neatly plaited black hair and smiled in return, vallaslin of Sylaise moving with the motion, revealing the sincerity in their expression.

“We were wed, last year, I wanted to tell you.” Isala’s eyes widened, _the ever nervous and fearful Cammen, wed?_ Despite her surprise she felt a surge of unbridled joy for them; how enviable to find someone to spend your life with.

“ _On’ala! Tuaun sul’nehn_ .” Cammen seemed embarrassed but pleased with her reaction, and even Hauen looked down shyly, long braid swinging with the motion. Isala stepped forward, taking their hands and placing them over one another’s, relieved they did not flinch at her touch. “ _On'ala’shasha sul ma ga'ta. Eth I Atish sul sal’shiral._ Great happiness for you both. May you know safety and peace throughout your lives.” 

They beamed, thanking her as she rummaged in her pack to give them a gift, pulling out a few rich fox pelts and bundles of incense as an additional congratulatory present. They gave their thanks again, and Isala left them, smiling at their promise to talk later.

Now she was close to the Keeper’s aravel and was feeling oddly nervous to see her mentor after years apart. Just as she was calming her heartbeat and preparing to call for Deshanna, they walked down the steps of their aravel, looking as tall and strong as ever. Their sharp features seemed to have become more lined with age since the last time Isala had seen them, but they still appeared healthy and stern.

“ _Ma Sa’len, ma lin'sila. Ir uth’melana tel’saron._ ” Isala felt a lump in her throat and discarded her burdens beside the Keeper’s aravel to step into Deshanna’s open arms. It was always a juxtaposed feeling of familiarity and awkwardness to hug her mentor, moreso after her last attempt to share what she had learned. The Keeper was a parental figure, and the clan her family, both blood-bonded and not, but the hierarchy they had of teacher and student meant Isala kept a certain distance between them. Still, she luxuriated in the wave of overwhelming respect and affection for the Keeper as she nestled into their chest, breathing in the familiar scent of wool and incense held in the gray fur of their armor. Deshanna chuckled and hugged her back tightly.

Greeting ended, they parted and Isala retrieved her bags to follow Deshanna into the aravel. Inside were the familiar items from her last visit, the layout of furs and quilts covering the wood floor and padded seat cushions, a weaving rack in one of the corners next to a statuette of a halla Isala had carved for her mentor years ago. They exchanged pleasantries and gifts as Isala settled across from the Keeper, ready to listen to her mentor’s request, as Deshanna considered their protégé.

It had only been a few months since Deshanna had last seen their disciple, but Isala had matured more in that time. Her lithe frame was fitted with Dalish armor, the deep green and soft brown leather and cloth familiar, but the way Isala wore the clothing had changed. She seemed more relaxed now, more accustomed to wearing protection and being aware of her surroundings. An intricately carved stave with a sickle for a blade was placed casually by her bare feet, well within reach should she need to grab for it.

The most familiar things about the First were what had always set her apart. Isala’s long white hair spilled down her back over her shoulders and to her hips, large shell discs hanging from her earlobes. Her slanted golden eyes were still doe-like, but less wide and childish. They now held a steady quality, and a depth to them similar to the still water of a lake. Full lips and light brown skin had lost the tautness they had held for years, the tension now gone to reveal a rosy undertone beneath her vallaslin and a mouth relaxed enough to smile easily, a quality that she had lost as child but since regained. Despite this underlying playfulness there remained a melancholy in Isala’s eyes that could not be overlooked unless one gave a shallow glance. The Keeper feared they had added to that pool of sadness with their decisions, and felt guilty over the relief they felt in seeing Isala outwardly seeming unaffected.

Without them watching, Deshanna’s First had become an adult: someone who was more comfortable with herself, and wise beyond her years. The Keeper felt an odd sensation in their chest, a tugging anchored in the pit of their stomach. They had no children, but the Keeper wondered if this wasn’t the loneliness of witnessing one’s child grow up, and the guilt of not being there to help and oversee it. Putting aside such emotions Deshanna smiled at the First.

“Have you spoken with Merrill of late?” The girl nodded and smiled at the name of her friend.

“Yes, she spoke more of the details of the Mage rebellion in Kirkwall. Merrill wrote what she knows of the aftermath and how it has created discord throughout Thedas. She said that she is glad that her clan has already moved away before the riots, but worries for her friends. She is working with elves in the Alienages to help…” Her voice trailed off softly, and then she continued. “I am sorry to say that the _Eluvian_ was damaged in a Templar raid. Merrill says the damage is minimal but she has not the resources to restore it at the moment. It was moved to safekeeping by her friends.” The Keeper sighed heavily, face drained at the news.

“Merrill was foolish in her actions. Marethari more so, but it is still trying to hear of another piece of our history lost, even one possibly corrupted.” Isala kept her disagreement to herself, at least for now, and placed her hand on top of Deshanna’s, squeezing gently. 

“It _can_ be restored, Keeper. In time.” The Keeper nodded and smiled softly at the comfort. It had taken years for the First to warm up to them, and here they were now, being comforted by a young woman who had experienced much more suffering than them. Sharp shoulders pulled back, chest pushed out as Deshanna straightened from their defeated posture. Dark green eyes met Isala’s and the Keeper smiled in thanks. Delicate fingers 'withdrew, placed once again in Isala’s lap. With that piece of news out of the way, the task at hand needed to be addressed.

The Keeper’s request was even more outlandish than Isala had predicted, but her curiosity was piqued; despite the risk she agreed that it would impact everyone, especially the most vulnerable, such as elves. If those in power would be making decisions and deals, they must know about them in order to decide how to proceed. Keeper Deshanna wanted to send some other clan members with her, but Isala persuaded her mentor to let her go alone; if she failed to successfully infiltrate, she should be the only one to suffer. 

Isala kept these thoughts to herself, but another reason she wished for no company was because she had grown accustomed to traveling and working alone. She felt anxious at the idea of being with people from her clan for so long a time after years of awkward affection mitigated by tension. In a few weeks, she would journey to the Conclave where the humans negotiated amnesty, disguised as an Elven servant. She, a Dalish Elven mage with an unusual appearance, would have to infiltrate the Divine Conclave. How difficult could it be? 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *this got deleted the first time and i...asjask...it's a lot. i'm so glad this is a short chapter.
> 
> Elvish featured in text:  
> Vhalla arla (welcome home)  
> Ra’on ea’arla (it is good to be home)  
> On’ala (wonderful)  
> Tuaun sul’nehn(a cause for joy)  
> Ma Sa’len, ma lin'sila (my First, my student)  
> Ir uth’melana tel’saron (it has been too long apart)


	4. CHAPTER IV: On’ala Vhellal

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Conclave did not go as planned and now chaos of a different kind reigns in Thedas. Thrust into the center of the conflict Isala must survive, at least long enough to clear her name and attempt to save the world.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> On’ala Vhellal (The Conclave)
> 
> This sticks really close to the in-game dialogue, actions, canon, etc. so it may not be that interesting to read. Sorry! It's a long chapter as well.

**{9:41 Dragon}**

Her knees ached, and the air was cold and dank. The scent of wet stone and burning torches met her nose as the jangle of metal against metal roused her. Isala’s eyes opened reluctantly, as though she was drunk on sleep, but she had no recollection of sleeping. She had been sent to the Conclave, disguised as a servant and…and what? She felt something heavy weighing down her wrists, heard the jangle of chains as she shifted..what was--a flash of heat burst through her left hand and a shock of green light flowered as she cried out in surprise.

Isala curled into herself, panting and wide awake, now aware of the humming in her hand, a glowing streak across the palm, and human guards surrounding her with swords poised to run her through. What had she gotten herself into this time? She tried to slow her panicked breathing, taking in her surroundings. It seemed to be a prison with four small cells, her in the center. The sounds from outside seemed distant, so they must be underground. This was _not_ the Conclave; the shabby stone and dank cells belonged to no temple. As she tried to grasp the situation a heavy door several feet in front of where she knelt slammed open, interrupting her musing and causing Isala to jump.

Two tall figures were silhouetted in the doorway, both wearing armor, the slightly taller one with a sword’s scabbard swinging from her hip. They stepped towards her, features shadowed despite the warm torchlight. The red headed human, a rogue by the looks of her armor, stood before her while the other human, dressed in a warriors’ breastplate circled behind Isala, leaning in to glare at her. When she spoke, her words were heavy with anger, as though it took every effort for her to speak rather than throw Isala against a wall. Her voice was thick with a rich accent, Nevarran perhaps?

“Tell me why we shouldn’t kill you now. The Conclave is destroyed. Everyone who attended is dead.” She strode full circle to stand in front of Isala, gesturing at the elf with barely restrained rage, “ _Except for you_.” 

The words didn't register at first, as though Isala was hearing their voices through several feet of water. She struggled to discern the common tongue, confused Elvish threatening to spill out. She felt as though her heart was in her throat, like her blood was suddenly too close to her skin. She would have been panicking if not for the shock of it all. Isala tried to reason out why she was imprisoned, being the sole survivor was of course, suspicious, but to _destroy_ the _Conclave_ ? She had no idea _what_ could do that, but certainly not a lone mage, no matter their power. She wanted to sit there and glare in defiance, not willing to engage with these humans...but her curiosity won out. Isala’s voice came out small and shaky as she posed a question, prompted by the decision in the warriors’ tone.

“ _Ma dhrua_ \--" She shook her head, beginning again. "You believe I am responsible?” The disbelief in her tone seemed to irk her interrogator, who snatched up her wrist as the mark on her hand burned once again with that green light.

“Explain _this_.” She flung Isala’s wrist back at her, who flinched. Was it because she was a mage, she wondered, or an elf? Pushing her anger down she stumbled to respond, mind racing for an explanation it seemed she did not have. Her mind felt hollow somehow, her memories of the Conclave vague and distorted.

“I-I can’t.”

“What do you mean you can’t?!” The tall woman’s voice rose in anger, pacing while the redhead walked behind Isala, the two of them circling like vultures. It would do her no good to lie, though she knew honesty would not satisfy them.

“I don’t know _what_ this mark is, or how it came to be.” The warrior lunged at Isala, grabbing the elf by the collar of her clothes, and shaking her.

“ _You’re lying_!!” Perhaps honesty had not been the better choice, Isala choked back a cry of shock, worried her magic might surge forth, but it seemed the manacles were suppressing her powers. She closed her eyes to calm herself; she could not afford to lose control of her emotions, or to show weakness to her captors. As Isala did this the redhead grabbed the other woman by the arm, pulling her away from their prisoner.

“We _need_ her, Cassandra.” Her voice also held a rich accent, but light and honeyed; Orlesian. Her tone was measured, but urgent, eyes steady on her companion. The other woman, Cassandra, stilled before backing up slightly, still glaring while the rogue turned to look at Isala. She could feel her body’s desire to escape into shock, leading words to escape involuntarily.

“So...all those people…they are _all_ lost?” The rogue’s leather armor swayed slightly as she turned to face Isala, her gaze cold and analytical but not shuttered, simply ready to analyze her and discern any lies.

“Do you remember what happened, how this began?” A shaky breath before Isala responded, her golden eyes squinted as she struggled to conjure up memories, everything so jumbled inside her head.

“I remember running. _Dunathe...creatures_ were chasing me, and then…a figure, a woman?” Her brow furrowed in concentration, only able to picture a silhouette; a vague shape as muddled as looking into the sun through one’s lashes.

“A woman?” the rogue seemed surprised, leaning back and crossing her arms; in disbelief?

“They reached out to me, but then…” Isala’s voice trailed off as her weak grip on the memories seemed to snap, her shoulders sagged and she let out a frustrated sigh. 

The human named Cassandra moved in front of the redhead, back turned to Isala, who now saw the symbol of the Seekers on her armor, illuminated in the torchlight. She felt another small surge of panic. The Seekers were separate from the Templars, weren’t they? Her brain fumbled to recall what she had learned about the Chantry when the warrior spoke.

“Go to the forward camp Leliana. I will take her to the Rift.” The rogue, Leliana, seemed hesitant to leave Cassandra with their quarry, but apparently deemed it safe—or worth the risk—and she nodded before sweeping out the door. The Seeker turned back towards Isala, features clearer now. She had warm brown skin and almond eyes under arched brows. Her high cheekbones were framed by short dark hair crowned by a thin braid, a small scar sat on her right cheekbone, a longer one on her left cheek. Beautiful but sharp; this woman was dangerous.

Cassandra leaned down to grab Isala’s wrists again and the elf resisted the urge to shrink away. She readied herself for something, a blow perhaps, but only to hear the clanging of metal against stone as the weight of the shackles vanished, the manacles binding her to the prison floor had fallen away. They were exchanged for hempen bonds, however, but it was a gentler imprisonment. The tension in Isala’s body lessened, and she braved a question, since it seemed she was not going to be slaughtered, yet.

“What _did_ happen?” The anger seemed to have drained from the Seeker’s body, although tension and wariness remained. Cassandra pulled Isala up but she stumbled, weakness in her legs meant it took her a moment to find her footing.

“It…” a small hesitation before the warrior continued, “will be easier to show you.” With Isala following slowly behind, Cassandra led her down a hallway and up a set of stairs into a dimly lit hall and a pair of grand wooden doors. The guards on either side opened them to reveal a small village, overcast as flakes continued to fall on the cabins already covered in a soft blanket of snow. They shifted at the door and eyed Isala warily as she walked outside, shivering slightly as her servant’s garb was not much in the way of protection. 

As she tried to take in more of her surroundings Isala heard a low crackling sound that grew into a deeper ferment, like that of glaciers shifting, before a bright light forced her to close her eyes. How could the sun be this bright on a snowy day? She put up a hand to block her vision, waiting for her eyes to adjust before looking at the sky to see—it was _broken_.

Tendrils of green light and floating rock were pooling in the sky, an emerald vortex at its center with a ring of clouds ominously cloaking the mysterious opening. Green shocks of light and debris were occasionally expelled from the mouth in the sky, the distant sound of explosions meant they were not harmless.

“We call it ‘the Breach’.” Cassandra’s voice, now soft, drew Isala’s gaze from where it had been glued to the heavens, back to earth. “It’s a massive rift into the world of demons that grows larger with each passing hour.” Isala’s scholarly mind was irked by the term “world of demons” but knew now was not the time to correct or debate. The warrior continued: “It’s not the only such rift, just the largest. All were caused by the explosion at the conclave.” 

Isala’s limbs felt weak; not just one tear, but perhaps _hundreds_ ? Were they all over Thedas? That would be catastrophic for the masses, soldiers already spread thin due to dissent. The most vulnerable would be the first and the highest number to suffer. The spirits as well would be curious, to then be dragged into the world of mortals and distorted by the extremes of human desires and emotion, exacerbated by the chaos. She shuddered, _how could such a thing be possible?_

“A single explosion is capable of that?” Isala’s question prompted Cassandra to turn and walk back towards the elf, jaw set.

“ _This_ one did. Unless we act, the Breach may grow until it swallows the world.” As though spurred on by the Seekers hypothesis, the Breach swelled and flashed, green lightning snaking around the vortex and its emerald pillar, the crackling sound echoing off the mountain sides. A sharp pain shot through Isala’s hand as the glowing mark on her palm flowered into green flame, pulsing with the Breach. 

She cried out as her wrist flailed upward, as if drawn to the tear. Now more alert with shock, Isala could sense it: the same hum of foreign magic that had invaded her hand she could also feel in the atmosphere; a thrum that emanated from the Breach. The green light flickered around her fingers as she fell to her knees with the intensity. She clenched her fist and held it against her stomach as though to quench the light, which continued to snap and hiss as she tried to breathe through the pain. Cassandra knelt before Isala, eyes softer than before, but voice rife with urgency. 

“Each time the Breach expands, your Mark spreads…and it _is_ killing you. It may be the key to stopping this, but there isn’t much time.” The inappropriate humor in Isala almost made her laugh out loud at all these terrible incidents coming in succession, but she could see the weight of reality. She wanted to help, but she needed some of her questions answered.

“You say it may be the key…to doing _what_? Do you think this—” she waved her hand to gesture to the mark “—could be capable of affecting something that immense? Does it really have the potential to—”

“Close the Breach. Whether that’s something possible we shall discover shortly. It is our only chance however. And yours.” Isala sighed, _of course it was_ , and collected her thoughts enough to feel indignant.

“You still think I did this? To the world? To myself?”

“Not intentionally. Something clearly went wrong.” Isala gritted her teeth. It was so like a _shemlen_ to make their mind up without questioning or investigating.

“And if I’m not responsible?”

“Someone is, and right now, you are our only suspect. You wish to prove your innocence; this is the only way.” Isala bit back her frustration. It had been a back-and-forth exchange that did not truly answer any of her questions. But in truth, her mind had been made up the moment Isala learned about the Breach, now she just needed to affirm her intentions out loud for her captor.

“Very well.” Cassandra’s eyebrows lifted, her voice higher than before.

“Then…?”

“I’ll do what I can. Whatever it takes. If this Breach is truly a rift into the Fade…” She trailed off. Tears in the fade were bad enough, but a hole ripped in the boundaries would mean incalculable suffering for both spirits and people alike. “The chaos will harm everyone. I want to help; it _must_ be closed.” At the sight of the elf’s resolute gaze the Seeker stood suddenly, lifting Isala up by the scruff of the neck, and leading her down a snowy path. She choked down her indignation at being _shem_ -handled and offered a prayer to the Creators for patience and success.

Isala had not noticed before, too mesmerized by the Breach, but now she saw villagers were huddled together throughout the hamlet, sticking close to the lodges, almost all their eyes on the sky. As Seeker and elf exited the main gate to the hamlet and walked up a shallow incline towards a bridge, village occupants alerted each other to their approach, some of them glaring. Isala was fairly used to being treated as a pariah, but it still irked her. Small groups whispered and glanced at her, shifting nervously, while a few were brave enough to yell or shout out epithets.

“They have decided your guilt. They _need_ it.” Cassandra had noticed her gaze. “The people of Haven mourn our most Holy, Divine Justinia, head of the Chantry. The Conclave was hers.” The Seekers’ voice shook with emotion, clearly grieving herself. “It was a chance for peace between mages and Templars. She brought their leaders together, now they are dead.” Fragments of memories swam through Isala’s mind, vague details about the conclave, about her mission. As the Seeker continued, tall wooden doors opened before them and they walked onto the bridge. The heavy thud as they closed behind her reminded Isala of a human’s casket.

“We lash out, like the sky. But we must think beyond ourselves. As she did. Until the Breach is sealed.” Cassandra stopped, holding up a hand for Isala to halt as well, gauntleted fingers going to a dagger on her belt. Isala stiffened instinctively although she knew the warrior would not kill her, not when she could potentially stop the Breach. The Seeker turned to her, seeming to end her monologue. “There will be a trial. I can promise no more.” She cut away Isala’s bonds and gestured for her to move. “Come, it is not far.”

“Are we to travel to the Breach?” Isala rubbed her raw wrists, old scars throbbing under new burns from metal and rope. She carefully took in her surroundings; the bridge was almost covered with shrouds, the remains of those who had fallen. Some scattered groups of soldiers and members of the Chantry were mulling about the overpass or otherwise huddled in prayer. There were a few carts and barrels with supplies, but seemingly nothing threatening at this stage as far as she could see but still she felt vulnerable in her servants’ garb; itching for her armor, or at least a weapon.

The Seeker called back her attention by giving an affirmation in response to the elf’s earlier question and commenting on the need to test Isala’s mark on something smaller than the Breach. Golden eyes were drawn in the direction of the path the two would no doubt take. Isala could see another bridge a short distance away occupied with bustling infantry, the Breach swelling ominously behind the shoulder of a mountain peak. Cassandra strode ahead, calling out to the soldiers guarding the doors. 

“Open the gates. We are heading into the valley.” They took to the path at a light jog, passing soldiers poised behind hastily erected barriers. A small group ran past the pair and back towards the bridge. Isala heard one call for the Maker, declaring it the end of the world. She couldn’t bring herself to completely disagree, it was certainly daunting. 

Isala offered a small prayer for strength and guidance to the Creators. She had a better view now of glowing debris expelled from the rift, like falling stars. They flashed when they hit the earth, from the locust of some of the impacts came faint sounds of battle while others left nothing but glowing and shifting rock in their wake. Burning wreckage lined the pathway and the pair gave them a wide berth as they neared the second bridge. A small line of soldiers ran ahead of them, one of them yelping as a glowing comet streaked past them to engulf a carriage in flames. _Is there no reprieve?_ Isala wondered, _Does the Breach constantly--_

Interrupting and answering her thoughts, green light flashed as the glow emanating from the Breach seemed to swell and lash out, the floating stone column tracing up to the mouth of the giant rift trembling with the rumble of the sky. Pain burned through the mark on Isala’s hand as the Breach pulsed, the shock and pain causing her to stumble to her knees. Cassandra knelt to help her stand, holding the elf’s shoulder firmly as she cradled her burning hand.

“The pulses are coming faster now.” Isala nodded; she would have to brace herself for when the pain came again. She flexed her fist around the mark, the faintly glowing sliver thrumming slightly. Isala paused for a minute before beginning to move again, walking this time. “The larger the Breach grows, the more rifts appear, the more demons we face.” Cassandra kept pace slightly behind her, urgency seeming to have nulled slightly.

“How _did_ I survive the blast?” The Seeker hesitated, appearing unsure of the answer herself.

“They said you…stepped out of a rift, then fell unconscious. There was a woman in the rift behind you, no one knows who she was.” Isala remembered a vague glowing silhouette of what had seemed to be a woman, but once again the memory faded out of her mind abruptly, like a candle being doused. “Everything further in the valley was laid waste, including the Temple of Sacred Ashes.” They stood at the throat of the bridge, Cassandra paused for a moment, as though swallowing her pain. “You’ll see soon enough.” 

Isala felt a pang of sympathy; she knew the Temple of Sacred Ashes was a precious part of culture and history for humans, and more generally devout Andrastians. As a Dalish elf, she had no love for the Chantry, but she and her people were well versed in lost and destroyed heritage. The Seeker seemed to notice and turned away, as though seeing sympathy on her prisoner’s face made her embarrassed or uncomfortable.

They resumed at a light jog and turned to enter the gateway to the second bridge. The soldiers were gathered on the other side, fumbling with carriages and other supplies. A low whistling sound was the only precursor to an explosion of green light. 

Debris from the Breach plummeted into the bridge; the carriages lit up like straw while the soldiers were crushed or bowled over. Isala gasped as limp bodies were catapulted with the force of the blast over the side of the bridge, which crumbled from the impact. She and Cassandra were spilled with cobblestones and supplies several feet onto the frozen water below.

The pair sprawled below on boxes of supplies and stone debris, the rubble still coming down on them. Cassandra was already scrambling to stand while Isala struggled to roll out from under a carriage wheel, shoving rocks off of herself. As she did so there was another low whistle; the sound of air being forced apart as another comet from the rift collided with an embankment of snow before imploding on the ice in front of them. 

The Seeker’s hand was poised at her hip, fingers hovering by the hilt of her sword. The two of them watched as the remains of the projectile hissed and glowed with the same eerie light that emanated from the Breach and Isala’s hand. The remnants of the comet seemed to seep into the ice, bubbling and pulsing before spires burst forth, a form uncoiling itself from the debris. Clawed fingers attached to a dark, shadowy figure with some limbs appearing like rotted flesh and hooded in ragged robes; a shade. Its hollow throat made a deep guttural sound, and Cassandra sprang forward, shield and sword at hand.

“Stay behind me!” Isala’s fingers itched with magic, wanting to cast, but she knew that disobeying the Seeker could do more harm than good, and she didn’t trust her control with this foreign magic infecting her hand. While the shade growled and Cassandra tried to pin it down, the green glow that had penetrated the ice remained, and even seemed to have spread. It coiled in front of Isala, the same distortion that had conjured up the shade her escort was battling now lapped at the elf’s bare feet. This was not a good sign. She could use her magic, but would that incite the Seeker? Could she guarantee she could control it without a staff? Without a…

The mage glanced over her shoulder at one of the supply boxes, splayed open from its fall, a variety of weapons snuggled in the straw. _How convenient_ , but she wouldn’t refuse such a boon. The rift’s gift was hissing and convulsing, black shadow and green light taking form as another shade. Isala leapt backwards, sweeping up a staff and taking a defensive stance a fair distance from the form, now fully fledged with its empty gaze trained on Isala.

It swept towards her, clawed fingers reaching out, shadowy tendrils flicking towards her to weaken her mind as she weighed the stave, and options, in her hands. A bit heavy, and with no substantial blade, but the sharp metal point would have to do. She glanced over at Cassandra, who seemed to be having difficulty incapacitating the demon in front of her. 

Her own shade’s deep rattle brought Isala back to her current predicament and she whipped the staff up, spinning it mid-air in a pattern for focusing her magic. Isala concentrated on stopping the threats first, tracing a sigil in the air and willing ice to shoot up from the ground around the shade, encasing its lower form in a cocoon of frozen shards. It groaned loudly, clawing at the ice to break it.

Isala glanced again to the Seeker, flicking the stave in the direction of the other shade to bind it to the frozen river as well. She heard the warrior cry out in surprise and winced, but knew she had to deal with the immediate danger first. The shade launched its upper body forward and she fended it off, striking it with the stave so that it wailed and recoiled. Its shadow magic whipped out for a moment, making her body feel heavy and cutting through Isala’s sleeves. She hissed in mild pain and annoyance, before swinging her staff around and slamming it into the ground. The glyph she planted on the ground shattered and ice shards shot forward, impaling the shade, before engulfing and crushing it. It gave another soft, hollow rattle before dissipating, and she felt a faint pang of regret and sorrow, wondering what it might have been before it was twisted by outside forces. 

Isala heard the deep soft sound of blade meeting semi-solid form and turned to see Cassandra had run her quarry through. The shade sagged and joined its companion in an ashen heap on the ice. Relieved, the elf relaxed slightly, scanning the sky for other falling debris from the Breach, ears perked for the telltale whistle before turning slowly back towards Cassandra.

“It seems to be over--” The Seeker was, as Isala had predicted, less relieved. The warrior strode towards her, sword drawn and poised, but at least the human still wore her shield on her back.

“Drop your weapon. _Now_ .” Isala understood the warrior’s caution, but felt irked nonetheless. Did the Seeker forget that she did not _need_ a staff? Did she expect Isala to simply wait on the sidelines, unarmed, unarmored, and to not help or defend herself? Despite these thoughts the mage decided to comply; it would do no good to argue the point when she was not trusted enough to be listened to. Given her status, it would do little good to defy this woman other than giving her catharsis and soothing her ego. She pictured for a moment the scenario where she refused, and sighed.

“I don’t need to wield a staff to be dangerous, but very well, I will do as you ask.” She began to lower the stave to place it on the ground when her escort stopped her.

“Wait.” Isala paused, confused and mildly annoyed. Cassandra spoke hesitantly, as though making the decision as she spoke. “I cannot protect you, and I cannot expect you to be defenseless.” The Seeker sighed, as though chiding herself. “I should remember you agreed to come willingly.”

Gratified by this, albeit minimal, acknowledgement of her cooperation, and the fact that she wouldn’t have to die or let others die because she was not permitted to defend herself, Isala expressed her gratitude. She found some materials to use to fasten the staff over her back, tying the leather in a loose sling with an accessible seal so she could grab it quickly. That settled, Cassandra turned to the scattered boxes below the wreckage of the bridge. The Seeker clicked her tongue in lament as she walked past the broken bodies of the soldiers, gaze scanning for survivors. There were none. 

“Such a waste of life.” Cassandra turned at Isala’s comment, seemingly surprised, but nodded in agreement. The warrior knelt at one of the supply cases and took out a case of potions, their glass vials clinking together as she held them out to the mage.

“Here, take these potions. Maker knows what we will face.” Isala nodded her thanks, slipping them into the slots on her belt. Cassandra did the same and they examined the rest of the wreckage for other viable items. Isala gestured towards the weapons cache and held up one of the daggers as a question to the Seeker. Her chaperone nodded, and the elf slid the sheathed weapon onto her belt as an extra precaution. Cassandra then turned and led the way up a small incline overlooking the frozen river. 

Two shades roamed below, ragged forms roaming back and forth as though pacing, despite a lack of feet, in a way where they would not be able to pass them without being noticed. Besides, already twisted by the Breach or other forces, they would remain a threat to any who came across them or whom they eventually sought out. Cassandra sighed, as though simply annoyed by an inconvenience, and signaled to Isala that she would go first, taking them head-on. Isala nodded, ready to jump down below and attack from behind. With the two of them working together, this battle was quicker than the last. The Seeker seemed to begrudgingly approve of the mage’s battle skills, or at least her aim.

Isala had expected the valley to be a battlefield of soldiers and demons, but it was—so far—an empty expanse of snow and frozen river, littered with warped spirits and frost kissed corpses.

“Where are all your soldiers? I would have thought there would be more.” Cassandra ran behind her, eyes scanning their surroundings for more adversaries.

“At the forward camp or fighting. We are on our own for now.” Isala didn’t mind that, less distractions for her with no need to worry about protecting, or being arrested, by anyone but the Seeker.

A few demons and short battles later, after slipping over the frozen river and slick snow banks, they were climbing a steep incline of stone steps when Cassandra called out to her. 

“We’re getting close to the rift; you can hear the fighting.”

There was still a fair bit of distance so the sounds of battle were faint, Isala was surprised a human could hear them. However up ahead there were similar sounds of conflict, but it shouldn’t be soldiers if they were supposed to be elsewhere. 

“Whose fighting?” Were these stragglers, and if so; more allies or more enemies? The pair came over the curve of the hill, burning trees and a path stained with soot led to another broken bridge with flaming wreckage and crumbled stone.

“You’ll see soon. We must help them.” Both friends and foes, it would seem. Of course Isala would help. 

She could see stone ruins now, that of another bridge tower, and flashes of green light a short drop from the place where she and Cassandra stood. A short distance ahead, a small group of people battled a cluster of shades; two wore Ferelden-style armor while the other two she couldn’t identify. They would need to jump down in order to help them defeat their adversaries and so she prepared to descend when... 

Isala paused for a split second when she noticed an odd rip in the air above the figures fighting below; green luminosity drawing her eyes. It looked like the Breach, but smaller and with no gaping chasm or column of light and debris. It seemed like one of the Fade stones, suspended in the air, flaring and shifting, sharp spires of crystal stone growing and waning, crackling and pinging like lightning and breaking icicles as it morphed. That must be what Cassandra had been describing; one of the smaller rifts. Isala had seen tears in the veil, but never something that looked like this, like the Fade was pushing itself into the physical world, or being pulled in.

The elf leapt down behind Cassandra as the Seeker launched herself forward to swing at a shade that had pinned one of the soldiers to the ground, her shield catching another that was poised to slash a man from behind. Isala took in a deep breath, and directed her focus. Twirling the stave in the necessary pattern and visualizing her targets, she brought it up above her head before slamming it into the ground before her. 

Gold lightning arced from her hand through the stave, racing along the ground to ricochet up the spines and between the four shades who stiffened, trembling and frozen from the shock. Cassandra took the opportunity to end one of them, two soldiers finishing off another. A dwarven man in a leather jacket shot the third shade with a crossbow of sorts, its rattling groan of defeat seeming to echo as it crumpled.

Isala walked towards Cassandra, who was helping one of the soldiers to his feet. Once standing the two infantry men ran past them and the rift, fleeing to tall wooden doors on the path ahead and opening them hurriedly before letting them fall closed. They had passed another man as well, who now skewered his opponent with his stave and extracted it in one smooth move. He was dressed in wool and furs, his russet skin gleaming with sweat despite the cold, and his face shockingly bare, but she saw familiar pointed ears. Isala was just feeling slightly reassured to see another elf when suddenly he spun around, striding towards her and snatching up her marked hand. The man dragged her before the rift, shouting to her in a mid-range voice with a clipped accent. 

“Quickly, before more come through!” He thrust her hand upward and Isala felt the oddest sensation: a connection. Her eyes widened in surprise as she watched the mark on her hand flower into green light and felt it gravitate towards the rift, the same glow arcing between her and the tear. A deep humming sound escalated as the brand throbbed, Isala’s arm shaking with the intensity of the contact. 

The tendrils of green light snaking between her palm and the rift and the man’s hand still firm around her wrist all made the heat from his hand and the mark feel as though it would burn her. The deep thrumming intensified even more, growing louder and higher until—the air seemed to snap, rift breaking outwards, or inwards, just bursting and then folding, green light coiling into itself, Fade debris hitting the ground with soft plucks, the air before them healed, rift in the Veil closed.

Isala stumbled back, her hand falling limp in the man’s grip without the rift’s pull. The other elf sighed as though a weight had been lifted or a question answered. Her fingers trembled as she pulled away from him, the mark once again quiet, its glow calmed somewhat. The man released her as she backed away and flexed her hand. The hum that had coursed through Isala’s entire arm was also quieting, but the magic inside her had swelled in response to the Veil, and her heart was beating like a bird against the bars of a cage. Isala raised her eyes to look at her new acquaintance, seeing his steady gaze was already trained on her.

“What did you do?” This other elf was tall, much taller than she had initially thought, Isala’s forehead was just barely level with his chest. His eyes were slightly down-turned, a deep blue-violet that seemed to look straight through her, hooded under defiant but gentle brows. His long hair was dark brown, and arranged in single braid that fell down his back. The man’s voice was low and rhythmic, the accent she had noticed before more apparent now that he spoke at a normal level.

“ _I_ did nothing, the credit is yours.” Isala raised her eyebrows at him, she felt that he knew that was _not_ what she had meant when she asked. She recognized it was related to the mark on her hand, that was obvious. “It seems the mark is useful after all.” She glanced down at the glowing sliver again before meeting his eyes once more.

“This mark closed the rift into the Fade, yes, but how?” 

“Whatever magic opened the Breach in the sky also placed the mark on your hand.” Isala nodded, this made sense, the shared nature of the two were obvious. “I theorized the mark might be able to close the rifts that have opened in the Breach’s wake—and it seems I was correct.” Once again, she raised her brows at him, this time at the satisfaction in his voice.

“Meaning, it could also close the Breach itself.” Cassandra interjected, walking towards them to stand behind Isala, eyes on the mark, then on the man. The tall elf looked to the warrior; expression neutral.

“Possibly.” Again, those eyes turned back to Isala. “It seems you hold the key to our salvation.” His lips seemed to quirk slightly, as though amused. _How curious_ , she thought, _to seem so calm despite all this chaos_. She opened her mouth to comment, but her ears perked at the sounds of gears and metal behind her, drawing her attention. Isala turned to see the other man; a dwarf clad in leather who was disarming an elaborate crossbow and placing it on his back. Dark blond hair was tied back by a leather knot, light stubble and a weathered face with heavy brows, a wide nose, and easy smile made him seem non-threatening. Despite the cold weather much of his chest was exposed, revealing an abundance of chest hair. As she wondered how the man wasn’t shivering with the cold, he raised a gloved hand to casually wipe snowflakes off and spoke. 

“Good to know! Here I thought we’d be ass-deep in demons forever.” His tone was cheerful, as if he also somehow found the present circumstances mildly entertaining. The dwarf approached her, hand held up in greeting. “Varric Tethras: rogue, storyteller, and occasionally, unwelcome tag-along.” At that he winked at Cassandra who made a small sound of unmistakable disgust, scowling. Isala almost smiled in spite of herself.

“I would assume you’re not with the Chantry? You don’t seem like their type.” Varric grinned and the tall elf gave a low chuckle.

“Was that a serious question?” Isala looked over and raised her eyebrows at him. It was obviously only a prompting for the dwarf to clarify his reasons for being in the fray. The other elf seemed pleased at her reaction and Varric obliged her.

“Technically I’m a prisoner, just like you.” This surprised Isala, a prisoner with a crossbow and such a jaunty disposition? Cassandra glared at the dwarf, indignant.

“I brought you here to tell your story to the Divine. Clearly that is no longer necessary.” Her tone was clipped, and she sounded like she was gritting her teeth. Varric shrugged, still jovial.

“Yet, here I am. Lucky for you, considering current events.” Isala felt that if she did not interject, they might bicker in earnest, despite the surrounding chaos.

“It’s a pleasure, Ser Tethras.” Again, the elven man interjected with a hint of laughter in his tone.

“You may reconsider that stance, in time.” Varric seemed unbothered by the snark and gave a carefree reply.

“Aww. I’m sure we’ll become great friends in the valley, Solas.” Cassandra’s hackles seemed to rise at this, and she glared at the dwarf again.

“Absolutely not. Your help is appreciated, Varric, but—”

“Have you _been_ in the valley lately, Seeker? Your soldiers aren’t in control anymore. You _need_ me.” Cassandra hesitated before making another noise of disgust and turning away from him, but seemed to concede, though obviously reluctant. Seeing that their squabble was over, the elven man gently drew Isala’s attention again, speaking in his measured voice.

“My name is Solas, if there are to be introductions. I’m pleased to see you still live.” Before Isala could ask, Varric answered her question.

“He means, ‘I kept that mark from killing you while you slept.'” She turned back to Solas, eyes bright with curiosity, almost forgetting their surroundings.

“You have extensive knowledge of the mark? You seem to know a great deal; even how it can be utilized to close rifts.” Solas seemed mildly pleased by her inquiry and Cassandra commented.

“Like you, Solas is an apostate, well-versed on such matters” Solas and Isala both seemed to give mental sighs, closing their eyes in sync before he responded.

“Technically, all mages are now apostates, Cassandra.” His eyes returned to Isala. “My travels have allowed me to learn much of the Fade, far beyond the experience of any Circle mage.” She noticed the disdain in his voice; she couldn’t disagree with his distaste though. “I came to offer whatever help I can give with the Breach. If it is not closed, we are all doomed regardless of origin.” Isala felt that his response did not fit, it seemed almost scripted. So she prompted him:

“That’s quite a commendable attitude. And what will you do once this is over?” Again, he almost seemed glad that she challenged him

“Merely a sensible one, although sense seems to be in short supply right now. One hopes that those in power will remember who helped, and who did not.” She felt the corners of her mouth twitch, he certainly knew how to talk, didn’t he. She couldn’t quite decide if that annoyed or amused her, so she decided to bring pleasantries and verbal duels to a close and bring them back to the real battle at hand.

“I am grateful; I too wish to end this chaos. If I can close the Breach, I will.” Solas seemed to sense her intentions and gave her a more blunt reply.

“Thank me if we manage to close the Breach without killing you in the process.” Isala sobered further and nodded, remembering the Seeker’s words from earlier about the mark seeming to grow.

“How did you manage to stop the mark from spreading? It does not seem to be expanding at the pace Cassandra said it had been.”

“Healing magic and minor wards, but I fear your mark is now past the point where those can help you” Isala nodded in acknowledgement. Perhaps closing the Breach, in addition to calming the skies, would help stop the mark. If not, she saw a great deal of panicked research in her future, among other things; at least one of them she hoped would be a drink. Solas turned to the Seeker, tone changing to take on a faint hint of urgency. “Cassandra, you should know: the magic involved here is unlike any I have ever seen. Your prisoner is a mage, but I find it difficult to imagine any mage having such power.” Cassandra nodded somberly.

“Understood. We must get to the forward camp quickly.” The warrior turned from the party towards a narrow path between rocky hills, heading further up the valley. Solas followed, stave now strapped to a pack settled between broad shoulders, bare feet matching Isala’s own pressed into the snowy ground. She stayed back, not quite ready to follow. Varric was beside her, turning to her as he gestured at his crossbow and grinned.

“Well, Bianca’s excited.” The dwarf then proceeded to follow the others. Confused, Isala moved to join them. Solas made a comment about the necessity to move quickly and Cassandra explained that they would have to proceed over the frozen riverbank as the road was blocked. Isala just wondered who this Bianca was.

The group struggled down a rubble laden embankment, Isala now wrapped up in questions concerning the Breach and her mark before Solas interrupted her thoughts to alert their party to demons ahead; she had been so distracted she hadn’t noticed the dull ache in her body as a response to their presence. As they spotted their adversaries Varric shouted a snarky comment aimed at Cassandra.

“Glad you brought me now, Seeker?” The battle that ensued was fairly short even though the shades were now accompanied by wraiths, also lesser demons but ones who were capable of shielding themselves with magic. Isala participated as both offense and defense, noticing that Solas seemed to primarily rely on spirit and fire magic that he used to strategically undermine and destroy their enemies, while primarily protecting the party. He seemed well-versed in battle and quite experienced. Varric as well proved his skill, prompting even Cassandra to seem mildly appreciative when he took out a shade that had approached her from behind.

They searched the houses on the frozen bank of the river to find no potions but some herbs and money, both of which were useless at the moment, before turning towards one end of the riverbed where they saw stone steps leading to a bonfire surrounded by shades. Another battle, with little useful loot to show for it, and they headed back towards the frozen river. As they walked Solas struck up a conversation with Isala, or what _he_ considered conversation; to her it sounded like fishing for information, or a reaction.

“You are Dalish, but clearly away from the rest of your clan. Did they send you here?” Isala cocked her head; the man had no _vallaslin_ but he did not seem to be a city elf either...was he a wanderer who had encountered clans before?

“What do you know of the Dalish? You seem to be more of a lone wolf.” A low chuckle resounded from slightly behind her.

“I have wandered many roads in my time and crossed paths with your people on more than one occasion.” She turned slightly to quirk an eyebrow at him.

“They are your people too, are they not?” His face took on a complicated expression, one she could not interpret before it melted back to neutral.

“The Dalish I met felt… differently on the subject.” Varric gave an exasperated sigh next to Isala, shooting Solas a look.

“Can’t you elves just play nice for once?” Isala ignored him, still curious.

“And what did you mean by crossed paths? That’s simultaneously a loaded and ambiguous way of framing interactions, is it not?” Solas’ voice took on an edge as he responded.

“I mean that I offered to share knowledge, only to be attacked for no greater reason than their superstition.” He looked at Isala, as though expecting her to get angry or defensive, but was surprised to see pain and sorrow flash across her face before she turned to look forward again, giving a soft sigh.

“I would be curious to hear about _how_ you offered this knowledge, but yes, some Dalish can be overly-wary and superstitious at times. As can anyone. In some ways we are children too, but we are trying, as we all are.” Isala suspected there was more to his opinions of the Dalish than how he framed his experiences as they seemed one-sided and rather hubristic, but still the old pain stirred before the anger could and she didn’t say anything else. Before Solas could meditate more on her response, the mark on Isala’s hand flared, and she hissed in pain, shaking it slightly. 

“Shit, are you alright?” Varric stared at her hand in concern, and Solas was startled by a sense of urgency and faint concern he had not felt as deeply earlier.

“My magic cannot stop the mark from growing further. We must hurry, before the mark consumes her!” He walked forward to pick up Isala’s hand, cradling it and trying to gauge its condition. He met her gaze, gold eyes slightly clouded with pain. “For your sake, I suggest we make haste.” Cassandra advanced as well, putting her hand on Isala’s shoulder, more sympathetic than before now that they had established some trust.

“I know it is difficult but hold on. We haven’t much further.” Isala nodded, teeth gritted in pain as her mark burned through her hand and the heat burned up her entire arm, as though molten in her veins. She pulled a piece of leather out from a pouch on her belt and tied back her hair, breathing through her teeth as she did so. The white strands of her hair were damp with sweat and stained by soot, her servant's clothing sporting more tears and her body more cuts than before. She focused her mana on trying to heal her superficial wounds as they crossed over the riverbed again and began to climb wide stone steps among the snow.

“So… are you innocent?” Varric broke the silence, and his blunt honesty made Isala’s lips curve up in a small smile. She gave a small shrug of her shoulders, the mark throbbing with the movement.

“I don’t remember what happened, but I believe I would remember doing something of this scale.” Varric seemed satisfied with her answer and gave a lighthearted reply.

“You’d hope so. That’ll get you every time. Should have spun a story.” At this, Cassandra jumped in.

“That’s what _you_ would have done.” Varric shrugged, no shame in his voice.

“It’s more believable, and less prone to result in premature execution.” Cassandra did not have a comeback for that, and they continued up the narrow winding stone steps. At the mouth of the stairs they met with a short battle with more of the lesser demons, after which Cassandra gave a soft sigh.

“I hope Leliana made it through all this.” Surprisingly, Varric offered her some comfort.

“She’s resourceful, Seeker.” Cassandra nodded and Solas gestured to the stone steps and vague shape of wooden doors and stone frame several yards ahead of their party.

“We will see for ourselves at the forward camp. We are almost there.” Again, they moved upward, passing burning debris and corpses, Isala was more grateful than ever for the ice and snow; the scent of death and destruction was more muted than it would be were it warmer. Still the stench followed them as they reached the top of the steps where another battle was waiting. Two soldiers were positioned beside a large door in a stone gateway to another bridge, battered and obviously terrified as a glowing tear sputtered green lightning and spat out adversaries; another rift. 

Cassandra pointed it out as she charged towards the largest shade with her sword and shield drawn. Isala saw two wraiths advancing towards the soldiers guarding the gate and grabbed her staff, spinning it in front of her and then stabbing the sharp end into the snow. Ice from the ground floated up and enveloped the wraiths before they could attack. Solas then swung his stave in their direction, his spell causing them to shatter as he shouted to Isala. 

“We must seal it. Quickly!”

She didn’t need the prompting, already raising her hand as the mark throbbed; almost as though it was eager to join with a rift again. She could feel the pull from the Fade and a moment of connection—broken when a shade came up behind Isala, claws slashing against her back. She cried out, falling to one knee, Cassandra rushed the shade as Solas erected a barrier around Isala and Varric made a clean shot into the demon’s skull. The rift sputtered and she heard a soldier wail:

“They keep coming! Help us!” She gritted her teeth and kept her knee on the ground. The others seemed to wonder why she was not standing up to try again, but were occupied with the fight at hand as another wave of demons materialized from the rift. 

Isala ignored Cassandra’s promptings to get up and held her staff in her marked hand. With the other, she used two fingers to draw a glyph into the snow before her; blocking out the sounds of battle and the pounding of demon’s magic against the barrier Solas had laid over her. With the glyph finished, she raised her staff again, holding it parallel to the ground above her head as she pressed her other palm into the drawing’s center and, ever so gently, blew into the snow.

The blizzard rushed out and up from where her hand rested in the glyph and, before any of them could blink, all of their surroundings froze. The only things that remained not encased in ice were the rift and her allies. Cassandra gasped slightly in surprise and the soldiers yelped, but Solas gave no reaction except a slight tilt of his head. Varric on the other hand, said:

“Shit! How did you do _that_?” Isala bit back a laugh and Solas prompted her again to close the rift. She swallowed the pain and raised the mark once again. This time the connection was instantaneous, and the rift burst like before; folding in on itself, this time the frozen demons dissipated with it. She released her magic then, the ice falling shattered into soft snow and the area that had been frozen appearing just as it had been before. The Seeker eyed Isala before turning to the soldiers.

“The rift is gone! Open the gate!”

“Right away, Lady Cassandra!” They scrambled to obey, pushing open the heavy doors. Their party trudged through the gate, Varric assuring Isala that the cut from the shade’s claws wasn’t that deep, and Solas confirming. 

“We are clear for the moment. Well done. Varric is right, I realize the wound must cause you pain, but I can assure you a simple poultice will do the trick.” Isala gave the pair her thanks before Varric voiced his thoughts. 

“Whatever that thing on your hand is, it’s useful. Here, finally: the Forward Camp.” Cassandra had strode ahead of them, past the supply caches and soldiers gathered behind the gate doors. The Seeker was marching towards a small table with a map splayed across it, a Chantry member and the redheaded rogue from earlier—Leliana—stood beside it. 

Isala could hear them arguing from where she stood; Leliana was insisting on preparing soldiers, while the man in Chantry robes was vehemently and—in Isala’s opinion—bull-headedly refusing to do allow it. His elderly features were twisted in anger, jowls speckled with gray facial hair shaking as he glared at the rogue. Leliana’s voice was sharp with urgency and annoyance as she continued to insist on action.

“The prisoner must get to the Temple of Sacred Ashes. It is our only chance!” The man scoffed; his air of superiority not matched by an honorable nature, it seemed.

“You have already caused enough trouble without resorting to this exercise in futility.” Leliana leaned backwards, arms crossed, her tone almost as astonished as it was dangerously angry.

“ _I_ have caused trouble?” The man threw up his hands in outrage.

“You, Cassandra, the Most Holy—haven’t you all done enough already?” Leliana shook her head, her voice taking on a hard quality.

“You are not in command here!” The man ignored this, continuing as though he _was_ some sort of authority.

“Enough! I will not have it!” He seemed to think his tantrum-like attitude was a show of power and prestige rather than the pathetic show Isala felt it to be. Their party followed the Seeker past wagons, soldiers, nervous murmurs, and piles of supplies before stopping in front of the table. The man noticed them as they approached and did nothing to hide the disgust and animosity he evidently felt, his tone bitter. 

“Ah, here they come.” Leliana looked up and her expression brightened a bit, seeing her companion and the party behind her.

“You made it. Chancellor Roderick, this is—” The Chantry official—Roderick apparently—interrupted her, earning a cold look from the rogue.

“I know who she is.” He glared past the Seeker to where Isala stood, vitriol clear as day. How odd it felt to be stared at and treated with disdain, not because of her appearance or abilities, but because of something unrelated. It almost felt like a reprieve. He pointed at Cassandra and continued, “As Grand Chancellor of the Chantry, I hereby order you to take this criminal to Val Royeaux to face execution.” _Never mind_ ; there would be no reprieve it seemed. Cassandra blinked in surprise at the command, quickly followed by outrage.

“Order _me_? You are a glorified clerk. A bureaucrat!” the Chancellor scoffed.

“And you are a thug, but a thug who supposedly serves the Chantry!” Isala raised her eyebrows. So it would seem it was at least partially true that humans not only valued hierarchies, but that even those who claimed to value faith and generosity above all else did not live up to the ideals they supposedly swore to uphold.

“We serve the Most Holy, Chancellor, as you well know.” If Leliana’s tone had been a knife, it would have cut the older man through. Roderick however, brushed past her comment and warning pitch.

“Justinia is dead! We must elect her replacement and obey _her_ orders on the matter.” Isala began to feel a tinge of annoyance; did this human really believe they could postpone something of this magnitude?

“Isn’t the Breach the more pressing issue here? It being dealt with cannot be delayed in favor of platitudes or bureaucratic machinations. This chaos _must_ be stopped as soon as possible.” She tried to keep her tone even so she would not set him off, being talked back to by an elf. The chancellor seemed momentarily baffled by what she had said but quickly overcame his surprise to screech at her, arms raised in the air.

“ _You_ brought this on us in the first place!” Isala sighed, this man was obviously not willing to listen to anyone, especially someone with no influence like her. She felt a warmth on her lower back and glanced over to see Solas slightly closer, his body right behind hers as though to steady her, or show support. She did not need it, nor understand why he gave it, but felt mildly gratified. Roderick turned to Cassandra once again. “Call a retreat, Seeker. Our position here is hopeless.” the warrior stood firm, her gaze unwavering and her tone insistent.

“We can stop this before it’s too late.” The Chancellor seemed to deflate, and his voice trembled slightly with frustration and confusion.

“How? You won’t survive long enough to reach the temple, even with all your soldiers.”

“We must get to the temple.” The Seeker gestured ahead towards where the main battle seemed to be taking place. “It’s the quickest route.” Hearing Cassandra say this, Leliana stepped forward, her eyes alert.

“But not the safest. Our forces can charge as a distraction while we go through the mountains.” Cassandra shifted to look at her, seemingly reluctant.

“We lost contact with an entire squad on that path. It’s too risky.” The Chancellor seemed enraged and baffled by their exchange and once again interjected; his tone simultaneously demanding and pleading. 

“ _Listen to me_. Abandon this now, before more lives are lost.” Isala felt slightly surprised that he was actually concerned; the older man had seemed to be more power-hungry and nihilistic, but now she realized he was likely overwhelmed by fear.

The sky pulsed again as the Breach flashed an even brighter green; a sound like thunder emanated louder from the swirling crevice above, which seemed to have expanded. Isala’s mark flared in response, and she gritted her teeth, glancing down at her palm as the green light seemed to spark and lick at her gaze, dying her pale features and even her gold eyes green. The gazes of everyone nearby were now on her, and Cassandra called her attention.

“How do _you_ think we should proceed?” Isala’s eyes narrowed in confusion, tilting her head to one side. Asking an elf, an apostate elf, an apostate _prisoner_ elf, their opinion? She felt a bit irritated at the extreme and varying treatments she had been experiencing. _How fickle humans are_. Despite the circumstances, or perhaps because of them, she wasn’t feeling very forgiving.

“Now you ask me what _I_ think?” She shook her head slightly, not bothering to hide the exasperation in her voice. Cassandra seemed slightly humbled by her reaction, but surprisingly Solas answered first—he seemed to have no qualms with speaking as an authority.

“ _You_ have the mark.” Isala looked up at him again. The tall elf still seemed vexingly calm, and Cassandra echoed his reasoning, her heavily accented voice low and respectful.

“And you are the one we must keep alive. Since we cannot agree on our own…” She trailed off; hazel eyes trained expectantly on Isala who sighed, conceding.

“Why not have your larger forces act as a distraction while also keeping their distance? With the right tactics you can draw the attention of the demons without having to engage in direct combat. Using the mountain path, the route could be just as fast, although indirect. There may be some casualties, but most can be prevented if we move quickly and soldiers don’t venture too close.” Isala met Cassandra’s eyes, and then Leliana’s “We can use the mountain path _and_ have your people work together. I believe we all know what’s at stake.”

Cassandra seemed as though she had hoped for a direct assault but agreed enough to proceed with the plan. “Leliana. Bring everyone left in the valley. Everyone.” Roderick, who had been standing behind the table, threw his hands up in exasperation and turned away.

“On your head be the consequences, Seeker.” Cassandra spun on her heel and gestured for the others to follow, giving the Chancellor’s words no response, but her eyes narrowed slightly, brow furrowing. _How unfair_ , Isala thought _, to place the burden and consequences of an impossible choice on one person_. The softening she had felt towards Roderick lessened, and they headed out the gates. 

They had refilled on supplies and a salve had been applied to the wound on Isala’s back. Now their party did their best to walk swiftly up a steep incline covered in deep layers of dense snow.

“The tunnel should be just ahead. The path to the temple lies just beyond it.” Cassandra beckoned for Solas, Isala, and Varric to proceed quickly. After a fairly short but steep trek, the party saw the stone outline of a complex built into the mountainside, and climbed the ladders attached to the cobbled walls. Isala followed behind Solas as he began to ascend, glancing at the structure as he called out.

“What manner of tunnel is this? A mine?” Cassandra could be heard below them, the clanking of her armor making her journey upward seem even more burdensome, but she still answered his query.

“Part of an old mining complex. These mountains are full of such paths.” From somewhere below her, Isala heard Varric call out.

“And your missing soldiers are in there somewhere?” Solas gave affirmation as he helped pull Isala up onto sturdy stone foundation.

“Along with whatever detained them.” She felt a surge of dread at the thought; she hoped that they had not all been slain.

“We shall see soon enough.” Cassandra came up at the rear, expression grim. She nodded at Isala to proceed, who was a bit confused as to why she was being deferred to, but advanced nonetheless. The cobbled ground they had climbed to led to wooden stairs, where Isala paused at an acute mental pang. She held up her hand to gesture for the others to wait and peered around the corner of the stone walls that lead into the complex. 

Her senses had been correct; a small throng of shades and wraiths was lying in wait. Varric looked over her shoulder where she crouched while Cassandra fidgeted behind them, seemingly eager to move onward. Isala signaled the number of adversaries, and Varric grinned, holding up a small brown sack. Confused, Isala moved to ask what was in it, but the dwarf leapt out into the open before she could, opening the bag to let a cascade of caltrops spill out. The battle was quick and fairly painless, though Cassandra cursed about having to avoid the traps Varric had laid.

As they advanced through the tunnels and up various stone steps to more open areas, Isala would warn the party of the demons she sensed, and they soon developed a harmonious rhythm in dispatching them. After another short fight, she paused by a balcony overlooking large ice stalactites and opaque darkness inside the mine. She gazed upwards, trying to see the sky, but it was impossible from her vantage point.

“I wonder why so many exploited spirits are gathering here…is something drawing them?” Hearing her musings, Solas moved closer.

“They are likely drawn to the Breach; perhaps they were twisted and pulled out by its power and have nowhere to go and nothing to do but act on the instincts inflicted upon them by this world.” Isala nodded her understanding.

“But I wonder why they spread out like _this_. Simply roaming here…for what? Wouldn’t they desire to be closer to the opening in the Fade? Or the people whose desires shaped them?” Solas paused, as though considering her point.

“Possibly, but they are also listless—they likely did not wish to become so, and it is possible what consciousness they had before they were warped might still be confused. I cannot say.” His tone made Isala think that he in fact _did_ have much more to say, but this was not the time or place for a debate. She sighed and murmured a soft prayer.

“ _Mythal ama esh’ala. Falon’Din lana esh’ala atish_.” Isala could feel that Solas was about to say something, but—pressed for time and dreading what he might say since he did not seem fond of Dalish elves—she turned to where Cassandra was dusting off a set of potions that had been in some nearby crates while Varric recollected his viable crossbow bolts. 

They walked up the steps to the mouth of the complex; the sun and glow of the Breach made the snow almost blinding. At the opening Isala stopped abruptly, causing Varric to curse under his breath as he bumped into her. Three corpses were splayed in front of the entrance, their Fereldan armor meant they were likely allies. Varric stepped up beside Isala and sighed, voice low and heavy with disappointment.

“Guess we found the soldiers.” Cassandra advanced as well, kneeling down to see their faces, and looking around.

“These cannot be all of them.” Varric seemed to brighten at this, tone hopeful.

“So…the others could be holed up ahead?” Solas cut in.

“Our priority must be the Breach. Unless we seal it soon, no one is safe.” Isala looked up at him, knowing it was likely not that he was simply uncaring, but was driven by more dire straits. Varric shrugged, seemingly unbothered.

“I’m leaving _that_ to our elven friend here.” Isala’s hand thrummed slightly, and she shook her head.

“If there are people who can be saved, we can afford to help them. The chaos must be stopped as soon as possible, and in order to accomplish that we will need all the help we can get.” Solas seemed to acknowledge her point, and she felt Cassandra’s gaze might almost be approving. She offered a silent prayer over their bodies and then they stepped around the slain soldiers to continue down the rocky pathway at a fast pace. As they descended a slight hill Isala heard a crackling sound and the clanging of metal. The Seeker must have heard it too because she broke into a sprint, rounding a bend in the path to see an open alcove where several soldiers were locked in battle with shades and wraiths.

“Lady Cassandra!” One of them, likely the leader, waved an arm while slashing at a shade, who groaned in anger.

“You’re alive!” the Seeker sounded both pleased and baffled but did not hesitate to draw her own weapons and leap into the fray. The soldier responded, even managing to sound humorous.

“Just barely.” The others moved to help the soldiers defeat the demons, while Isala focused on immobilizing enemies before disrupting the rift. Another short battle with terrors who had been produced by the tear and she closed it; the odd sensation of connection and release gradually becoming more familiar. The burst of green light and fade rock this time made her entire arm ache, palm hot with the mark.

“Sealed, as before. You are becoming quite proficient at this.” Solas walked over, picking up her mark for a moment to examine it, before nodding and returning Isala’s hand to her. Varric put away his crossbow and nodded, gesturing to the sky.

“Let’s hope it works on the big one.” Meanwhile, Cassandra was among the soldiers, helping the leader to their feet, who spoke with clear relief and exhaustion.

“Thank the Maker you finally arrived, Lady Cassandra. I don’t think we could have held out much longer.” Cassandra shook her head and aimed a soft smile in Isala’s direction.

“Thank our prisoner, Lieutenant. She insisted we come this way.” The elf was surprised and gratified by the acknowledgment but felt immediate awkwardness when the eyes of the soldiers rested on her.

“The prisoner? Then you…?” She resisted the urge to shift nervously but couldn’t muster a smile. She settled on a small nod, lowering her eyes as she spoke.

“It was worth saving you, if we could.” Cassandra turned back to the infantry as some of them spoke or nodded their thanks.

“The way into the valley behind us is clear for the moment. Go, while you still can.” The lieutenant nodded and gave her affirmation before turning to the troops and giving them the order to move. As they fled back towards the tunnels, Solas gestured for their own party to continue.

“The path ahead appears to be clear of demons as well.” Cassandra nodded, brushing some debris off of her armor as she proceeded.

“Let’s hurry, before that changes. Down the ladder. That’s the way to the temple.” They descended, and Isala’s body began to feel heavy. This was not the time to be overwhelmed, as the greatest obstacle still remained in the Breach, but she had been through so much, and had never gone through this many consecutive battles before, let alone with all adversaries being demons. Her wounds ached, her head was pounding, and her mark throbbed, but she kept up with the others, concentrating some of her mana into minute healing magic, to at least ease the pain and tension in her body. Varric broke the silence that had fallen upon the group as they moved towards stone ruins.

“So… holes in the Fade don’t just accidentally happen right?” Solas responded.

“If enough magic is brought to bear, it is possible.”

“But there are easier ways to make things explode.” The other man yielded his point.

“That is true.” Cassandra interjected, seemingly a bit irritated by the debate.

“We will consider how this happened once the immediate danger is past.” Silence returned as they continued down the winding pathway of stone steps until they reached the ruins. 

Isala had seen the destruction from afar but up close the scale and intensity of the explosion was more than she had previously thought. Stone spires that must have once been towering walls still stood tall but were now jagged and stilted, stabbing upwards into the sky like crooked spears, and the entire surroundings were littered with cinder and rubble. Ashes from what must have been tapestries and books were scattered on the ground. The scorched stone was also strewn with singed wood remnants and charred bodies who writhed and crouched, frozen in agony, their forms still glowing like embers.

A grand arch that must have been the mouth of an impressive hallway still stood almost whole, but was framed by dark spires that pulsed with green veins, as though leaching out of the Breach. These twisted and razed remnants from the explosion that caused the Breach were all that was left of the grand structure that had been there before. Isala again felt a pang of sympathy for what had been lost. Solas’ soft voice interrupted her reception of the destruction, his tone rough and almost a whisper.

“The Temple of Sacred Ashes.” Behind her Varric muttered as he struggled to walk over uneven ground.

“What’s left of it.” Cassandra walked behind Isala, who was drawn to a space on the blistered stone, the vague remnants of another wall of the temple, where red crystals seemed to fester. Her mark and head were throbbing, as though pushing to remember what had happened here. The Seeker gestured towards a space next to the stone rubble, voice soft.

“That is where you walked out the Fade and our soldiers found you. They said a woman was in the rift behind you. No one knows who she was.” Isala bent down to touch the stone; it was still warm and she could sense a faint trace of foreign magic and ambiguous energy, but knew she could not afford to linger and explore the meaning and origin of what she felt.

The Seeker motioned for the party to enter the archway leading into a grand hall of the temple, likely where the explosion had originated. They passed through the entry and came upon more corpses, still burning. Isala walked carefully past them, eyes glued to the carnage of flash-burn frozen remains until she heard the now familiar crackling sound of a rift, but deeper and more resounding than the smaller tears.

Her eyes were drawn up, and Isala saw the utter decimation of the inner hall. This main vestibule of the temple looked as though it had been blown back into the mountain, the once massive structure was now those same blackened and pulsing spires she had seen outside, all pointing away from the center of the space. There in the middle of the destruction was an almost whole statue of Andraste, her arms raised as though offering up the massive green pillar before them. 

The same red crystals Isala had seen earlier permeated this space too, along with pulsing green veins of light that shone within the melted and crumbling walls of the temple. The space was dyed in the eerie glow that shone off the Fade rocks gathered in a large rift before the statue that hung between the ground and the yawning Breach above them. Emerald light was whipping out from its molten center like lightning and spitting debris from its core. From it, a viridescent pillar of light and glowing debris curled up to the massive hole in the sky, where fragments floated and revolved, the gathered clouds that encircled the maw of the giant tear flashing with light.

“The Breach _is_ a long way up.” Varric sounded as if he wanted to whistle but was holding back, his voice soft with astonishment. There was the sound of movement behind them, and Isala turned to see Leliana and an entourage of soldiers entering the temple. The rogue ran up to them with relief plain on her face.

“You’re here! Thank the Maker.” Cassandra turned to speak to her.

“Leliana, have your men take up positions around the temple.” Her companion nodded, gave the orders to the soldiers, and walked away to speak with other infantry, quiver slung over her mauve armor and bow in hand. The Seeker shifted back to look at Isala, gaze intent and searching. “This is your chance to end this. Are you ready?” Isala’s eyes turned back to the rift and the Breach, both towering far above them.

“I’ll do everything in my power, but I don’t know how I can reach the Breach, much less close it. Won’t we need some way to get further up?” Solas shook his head, his tone urgent.

“No. This rift was the first and is the key. Seal it, and perhaps we seal the Breach.” His eyes rested on Isala. “You will be close enough to make the connection, that is enough.” She nodded. Cassandra shifted her armor and double-checked her sword and shield before nodding to the rest of them.

“Then let’s find a way down, and be careful.” Leliana returned to their party, bringing up the rear as they haphazardly made their way around rubble, corpses, and burning red crystals; following a path that circled down to reach the inner chamber. They passed nervous soldiers lining the walls, weapons in hand but fear in their eyes. As they walked a faint and echoing sound broke the tense silence; it almost sounded like a fragment of a word. Isala looked around, trying to find the origin. Then, suddenly, the sound echoed out clearly: a deep, gravelly voice with no emotion or unnecessary inflection.

“ _Now is the hour of our victory. Bring forth the sacrifice._ ” Cassandra spun in alarm, looking around for a source, her own voice breathless.

“What are we hearing?” Solas’ eyes turned only to the Breach, his gaze and voice steady.

“At a guess: The person who created the Breach.” They passed several archers who stood poised at the edges of the wall remnants overlooking the inner room, heads swiveling and bodies shaking with nerves and fear. 

Isala’s party continued, walking by more glowing red crystals, the heat and crimson tendrils of light felt dirty to Isala, and she shuddered seeing them. Varric made a sound of revulsion, waving his hands in the direction of the ominous minerals as he spoke to Cassandra.

“You know this stuff is _red lyrium_ , Seeker.” The warrior’s voice remained steady as she replied.

“I see it, Varric.” For the first time, the dwarf sounded distressed and looked genuinely bothered seeing this warped lyrium.

“But what’s it _doing_ here?” Solas leaned in briefly for a look but did not venture closer to the crystals and their mysterious heat.

“Magic could have drawn on lyrium beneath the temple, corrupted it…” A sound of disgust, from Varric this time, and not Cassandra.

“It’s evil. Whatever you do, _don't_ touch it.” Isala would gladly take that advice, she felt wrong just looking at the crystals. When she had to get near one to walk around a burned body it made her feel physically sick. Their party rounded another corner of the path leading downwards, and another echo emanated throughout the ruins.

“ _Keep the sacrifice still._ ” It was the same monotonous voice from before, but this time it was followed by a frantic, high-pitched voice with a heavy Orlesian accent.

“ _Someone: help me!_ ” Cassandra let out a surprised gasp, head shooting up, eyes wide.

“That is Divine Justinia’s voice!” Their group finally reached the end of the pathway, where there was a fair drop to reach the floor where they would need to deal with the Breach. Isala jumped down into the pit, and together the party approached the rift. The mark on her hand flared in response to the massive chasm and pillar above them, spitting and humming. The same echo of Divine Justinia’s voice came again, but this time was followed by another. This one was also faintly accented but with a different pitch, light and smooth but with no emotion: it was Isala’s voice.

“ _What’s going on here?_ ” Isala’s ears perked, her head tilted in confusion as the mark on her hand continued to hiss with green. That wasn’t her, _was it_? Cassandra was at her back, stunned, sharp gaze now fixed on the elf.

“That was _your_ voice. Most Holy called out to you. But…” The warrior trailed off and suddenly a bright flash of white light permeated the space, drowning out everything. When it faded a ghostly scene appeared, there and not there. Superimposed on the ruins was a shadow of what must have been the vestibule before its destruction. 

A large dark apparition loomed over the ghostly form of an older woman wearing the intricate robes and headpiece of the Chantry. The only distinctive features of the specter towering before her transparent figure was smoking red orbs like eyes and the shape of clawed hands reaching towards the floating woman. The arms of this echo of the Divine were wrapped in red magical binds, her aged features twisted in fear. There was the vague sound of something heavy being pushed, like a door, and Isala stepped back with a small gasp.

Her own form, like a ghostly memory, entered the scene standing some distance from the two other specters. There was no doubt it was Isala, her white hair was braided in a bun on her head, the headscarf she thought she had worn nowhere to be seen. Her slanted golden eyes were wide with surprise, full lips opening as she stood there vulnerable in the simple servant’s garb she had worn to sneak into the Conclave. Her figure stood completely still; unnaturally still.

“ _What’s going on here?_ ” Again Isala’s voice echoed, but it was empty of emotion; oddly monotone for the scene she had apparently witnessed. The ghostly form of the woman—Divine Justinia—desperately called out to her, a strong undertone of something like defiance in her voice despite her obvious terror.

“ _Run while you can! Warn them!_ ” The dark specter turned the red fire in indiscernible sockets towards the memory of Isala’s form, one gnarled echo of clawed fingers reaching to point towards her. The voice emanating from the shadow was apathetic, booming out orders as though faced with a minor inconvenience.

“ _We have an intruder. Slay the Elf. Now!_ ” The sound of moving rocks and the crackle of lightning as the rift below the Breach shifted again and another blinding flash of light burst. During the time those witnessing the ghostly reenactment raised their arms to protect their eyes, the spectral scene had disappeared. 

“You _were_ there! Who attacked? And the Divine, is she…? Was this vision true? What are we seeing?” Cassandra had strode up from behind Isala, facing her and grabbing her elbow so tightly the elf had to grit her teeth not to cry out. Isala looked into the Seeker’s eyes, seeing the desperation and confusion and quieting the indignant anger that had risen up inside of her. She placed her free hand on Cassandra’s, looking her in the eyes.

“I don’t remember. That seemed to be a memory, perhaps the magnitude of whatever occurred left an impression on the ruins.” Solas had walked in front of them, closer to the rift, his eyes trained on the moving rocks and the green light spitting from its depths. He glanced at Isala as she spoke, seemingly surprised that she knew such a thing could be possible, but nodded, his even voice carrying to where they stood.

“Echoes of what happened here. The Fade bleeds into this place.” Cassandra loosened her grip on Isala and turned to stalk towards the tall elf whose gaze was still focused on their adversary. He continued: “This rift is not sealed, but it is closed… albeit temporarily. I believe with the mark, the rift can be opened and then sealed properly and safely. However, opening the rift will likely attract attention from the other side.” Cassandra nodded solemnly, turning to speak to her companions and the soldiers standing by.

“That means demons. Stand ready!” Archers moved forward to line the upper embankments of the ruins with their bows ready as the warriors below unsheathed their weapons, waiting on Cassandra’s commands. Leliana strode behind their party, bow in hand and no hint of fear in her eyes. The Seeker turned to Isala and nodded a prompt to open the rift. Isala closed her eyes, took a deep breath, and lifted her hand—

Like before, green light sprang forth, snaking and twisting up towards the rift. The moment of connection caused more bursts of emerald flares, the massive Fade rocks shifted and warped, spires bursting outwards and imploding. Light from the rift shot behind their group, a shimmer of green and black light, more similar to the veil tears Isala was familiar with, now glistened in midair. It rippled there for just a moment before morphing and a figure pushed through, corporealizing into a Pride demon, its spiked and twisted form towering over the party. A deep roar changed into raucous, arrogant laughter as it raised its arms above its horned head, collecting lightning between its giant claws as its massive form crashed into the ground. As those watching scrambled to respond the rift crackled and calmed, seemingly content with just this gift, at least for now.

The Seeker shouted a command and the soldiers sprang into action, attacking the demon or dodging its strikes. Isala was already tracing a sigil into the ground, one for neutralizing Pride’s attacks, the other intended to freeze it in place. Solas, taking note of her work, moved to stand slightly in front of her, placing a barrier around Isala and deflecting the stray sparks that ricocheted towards her as the demon turned its attack on Cassandra. The warrior bore down on her adversary ruthlessly despite its strong guard, and the soldiers backing her up moved to aid her, though mostly in distracting the demon. 

Despite this promising beginning to their battle, however, Isala knew that engaging in corporeal combat with a Pride demon was incredibly dangerous, not to mention time-consuming as they had incredible physical fortitude and stamina. This would be an excruciatingly exhausting battle if they did not play their cards right. Varric fired flaming bolts from his crossbow and jumped back a safe distance as they connected, causing the demon to roar in pain and irritation.

Isala finished her tracing of the sigils and gestured for Solas to move aside as she pulled herself up to stand before them. She began spinning her stave slowly above the etchings in a circle, the twirling sound of wood and metal drawing the demon’s attention. As soon as Pride looked her way Isala slammed the blunt end of her stave down on the first, larger sign. A rush of air surged from the pattern she had sketched, only whipping up her allies’ hair and clothing, but slowly crushing the demon’s defenses and pulling it closer to the ground. 

As Pride roared with anger Isala spun her staff again, this time stabbing the second sigil with the side of the weapon that had the blade. She used her mana to compensate for the small cutting edge, and a jagged trail of ice snaked from the smaller sigil towards the demon, stabbing through its armored flesh and encasing its legs in sharp and unforgiving permafrost. Pride roared again and Cassandra gave a triumphant cry, moving in for another attack as she yelled to Isala.

“Well done! But we must strip its defenses more, wear it down.” She gestured upwards with her shield. “Quickly! Disrupt the rift!” Isala did as she was asked, the rift—which had been shifting and crackling in response to her seemed to groan and, before it calmed, more adversaries were spit from its glowing depths: shades. They set their sights on Isala, it seemed, and she tried not to feel irritated. _Of course_ , she thought, her bad luck was nothing if not consistent.

A few soldiers moved to break away from the battle with the Pride demon in order to aid her, but she gestured for them to abstain; there was more need for manpower in the main conflict. At that moment Cassandra announced the larger demon was vulnerable, and led another attack against it, leaving Isala and the distant archers to deal with the stragglers. The archers dealt with most of the shades that had came from the rift, but a pair seemed intent on attacking Isala.

One of the shades rushed towards her, claws outstretched as it gave a guttural, hollow growl. Isala concentrated on remaining calm, blocking the attack with her staff, and keeping an eye on the other. It would seem the time for sigils was past, at least for now. Taking on two demons in close combat did not constitute ideal conditions for sketching glyphs. As she considered which spell would be most effective, Varric flipped past her, shooting a bolt through an outstretched arm of one of the shades.

“Need a hand?” She admired the dwarf’s agility and his ability to stay seemingly so cheerful in the midst of combat. The shade howled and lashed out in pain, Isala blocked again and put her right hand to her temple, closing her eyes for a moment. The spell burst from her mind like a field of repulsion, flinging the two shades attacking her at least ten feet away. She gave a small smile towards the dwarf, as he ran back past her, still waiting for her response to his offer of help.

“Thank you, but I’ll manage. Although the archers seem like they could use aid.” Varric grinned and gave a salute of sorts, already back in the main fray. Isala stood very still and tried to gauge from her surroundings the best spells to vanquish the demons. She could feel the faint pull of the Fade from the rift. Although it was warped, Isala still felt she could harness some of its energy to perform what would typically be a more mana-consuming spell, one she had read in an ancient tome months before. 

Closing her eyes, she gathered the mana inside her core and visualized what she wanted, reaching her hand out to enact it when━the warm weight of a body moved in front of Isala, jolting her out of concentration. Solas stood with his back against her forehead, swinging his stave in a pattern and pointing it towards the advancing shades, where they burst into flame as his spell connected. He turned to look down at her, a considerable distance she realized again as she saw him from so close.

“Are you unhurt?” Isala could not help but glare at him, irked he had gotten in her way, although grateful he had helped her. He seemed to notice this and gave a wry smile. “I could sense you were enacting a spell, but I felt the time could be better spent—” Isala sighed, stepping out from behind him to face the Pride demon.

“All of that concentration and harnessing of power....well, I suppose I can use it for…” Isala shifted to distribute her weight, once again focusing on harnessing energy from the Fade. Now she needed to get the attention of the more powerful demon. She decided a taunt would work best or Pride.

“ _Felasil: ar’eolasa ahn ma tel’din_ _._ ” The massive demon turned towards her, as though finally sensing her, and opened its jagged maw to respond, monstrous body crackling with lightning as it swelled with rage. Solas might have been saying something, but Isala blocked him out, blocked everything out. 

Isala locked her gaze with Pride, now ragged, but still strong. She reached out her hand as she had done before, this time with all the magic she had been gathering at the ready. She held her open palm out as Cassandra yelled for her to move, the demon’s arms above its head as it began to fling down two ropes of lightning and raw energy, they whisked across the ground towards her and—dissipated. 

A high keening sound tore away the attention of those expecting to witness the elf being killed, and drew their gazes back to the demon, where it stood as though frozen, struggling to move. Its mouth opened as it roared, magic dissipating from its claws. Isala’s own hand was still outstretched but now clenched tightly in a fist. The air around the demon rippled with the weight of some unseen energy, the crushing invisible prison of Isala’s grip causing the demon to kneel on the ground.

“Seeker!” Isala’s voice seemed to jolt Cassandra out of her shock, and the warrior lunged forward, vanquishing Pride. Before anything else could be said or done, the rift above them gave a deep, booming crackle—a promise of more battles and Cassandra spun to Isala, voice breathy and ragged with exhaustion. 

“Now! Seal the Rift!” Isala had fallen to her knees on the ground, a great deal of her mana depleted and fatigue threatening to hit. Solas helped her to stand as the Seeker cried out again. “Do it!” The elf couldn’t help feeling slightly annoyed. She was a mage after all; Isala knew it was urgent, but could also sense that the rift was not going to be a threat until several more minutes had passed. _The Seeker should try drawing on and manipulating the ancient and volatile forces of magic and the Fade for once and see how easy it really was_. Nevertheless, she complied, connection drawing her hand upwards, green light sparking, her body humming with the force, the glow from the rift snaking out and growing further, then crumbling in on itself, the core of it glowing almost white and then—

The link seemed to break or rip, the green column of light that had descended from the Breach to the rift now snapped and rushed back upwards into the swirling abyss in the sky. A ring of green light rippled from the Breach—a moment of silence—and then Isala’s eyes rolled back into her head, body hitting the ground as a blinding wave of light seemed to burst from the Breach, and for a moment, the whole world seemed white.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some more details and game-focused stuff next chapter or so but then it's more game-divergent stuff.  
> Elvish featured in text:  
> Mythal ama esh’ala (Mythal protect them)  
> Falon’Din lana esh’ala atish (Falon'Din grant them peace)  
> Felasil: ar’eolasa ahn ma tel’din (fool: I know what you do not)


	5. CHAPTER V: Alin I Av’ahn

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Breach is closed, at least for now, but the chaos is far from over. Isala is irrevocably wrapped up in the discord tearing through Thedas, and unfortunately all the human nonsense that accompanies it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alin I Av'ahn (A Stranger & a Question)
> 
> Another chapter that's just my self-indulgent details of what happens in-game with the prologue.

Long eyelashes fluttered as Isala stirred, eyes moving restlessly beneath their lids. She twitched slightly, hands cradled to her chest as she curled into herself. Her forehead was damp with sweat, brow furrowed as she shifted; the simple nightgown she wore was mussed and she had kicked off the covers at some point during her troubled slumber. A final jolt woke Isala from a fitful and dreamless sleep, her head lifting from the pillow as she gasped for air, long white hair clinging to her skin. 

It was rare for her not to dream and enter the Fade as she slept and it made waking harder. Isala’s body felt heavy and stiff, though the surface beneath her was soft and the air around her warm. She struggled to open her eyes, and squinted against the light as she shifted to look around her, feeling as though her limbs were clumsily carved stone. 

The subtle creaking of wood and faint hint of wind told her she was indoors, but not inside a stone prison this time. When gold eyes finally opened fully, Isala saw she was laying on a bed in some sort of cabin, a fireplace roaring not far from her and two torches on either wall; one flickered at the foot of the bed, the other by a desk covered in papers. Various supplies were scattered around the room in the form of crates, chests, and sacks, and even a bird was resting with its head tucked under a wing inside a cage as it slept. 

Isala blinked heavily and struggled to push herself up with her elbows when the sound of a door opening startled her into looking up, in turn shocking her visitor. A young elven servant gave a small squeak of surprise and fumbled the box they had been carrying, dropping it to the floor as they too dropped; short auburn hair touching the ground as they groveled in a kneeling position and bowed, stammering out an apology.

“I didn’t know you were awake! I swear!” The prostrating, let alone done by another elf, made Isala flush with nerves and shame, giving her enough energy to sit up on the bed and swing her feet over the side. She knelt before the servant, touching them on the shoulder to try and prompt them to look up, speaking gently in Elvish.

“ _Ahnsul ane ma geal'un_? Please, lift your head. I only—” The elf gave another squeak at the touch, causing Isala’s hand to recoil instinctively; the rejection prompted painful memories. The servant peeked up at her and seemed to see that in Isala’s expression which caused them to double down on their abasement.

“I beg your forgiveness and your blessing. I cannot understand you. I am but a humble servant. You’re back in Haven, my lady. They say you saved us. The Breach stopped growing, just like the mark on your hand. It’s all anyone has talked about for the last three days!” Isala rocked back on her heels, pushing aside her discomfort at the title of “lady” and trying to process this information, and the other elf’s attitude towards her.

“Then the danger is past, at least for now.” The elf glanced up at Isala again, raising their head slightly before looking down again.

“The Breach is still in the sky but that’s what they say.” Suddenly, the other elf shot up, causing Isala to stand as well, stumbling backwards slightly out of surprise. “I’m sure Lady Cassandra will want to know you’ve wakened. She said, ‘at once’!” They backed away, obviously eager to leave the cabin. Isala cocked her head.

“And where is the Seeker?” The servant stammered as they backed away towards the door.

“In the Chantry with the Lord Chancellor. ' _At once_ ,’ she said!” Isala sighed, falling back to sit on the bed as the other elf hurriedly escaped her presence. It would seem she was not out of the woods yet, although literally speaking Isala would much prefer to be in them. _More shemlens_ , was the only thought she could muster as she rubbed her eyes and forced herself to stand up and look around. Before she would seek out her former imprisoner and the stiff Lord Chancellor, Isala wanted to get her bearings, possibly even find something to defend herself with. The first order of things though, would be finding clothing. The shift she had been dressed in was odd to her for _sleeping_ let alone suitable clothing for winter climate, nor was it defensible. 

Isala rummaged through various supplies in the room, hoping that the owners wouldn’t mind if she borrowed some things. She rifled through the papers on the desk and found a leather tie which she used to loosely plait her long hair. On the desk she also found some patient notes that seemed to detail her own condition while she had been unconscious; several days seemed to have passed...she tucked them away for later. Before examining the storage containers in the cabin Isala first inspected the box the elven servant had dropped. It seemed to contain medical supplies, which she gladly used on her wounds before continuing her search for clothing. In a chest by the desk were various armors, all of which were designed for humans. Still, they were better than sleepwear, so Isala chose to don clothing that looked comfortable and warm. Now changed and curious about her larger surroundings, Isala cautiously opened the door of the cabin, and promptly shut it again.

Outside her wooden refuge was a snow-capped encampment surrounded by tall Palisades she had only barely caught a glimpse of before when she had been in the Chantry. The truly alarming sight was that only a few feet from her door there stood at least _fifty humans_. 

Some wore armor, others plain clothing but all were lined up in a fairly organized crowd, glancing in the direction of the cabin she currently occupied; the hum of their voices was now so apparent that Isala wondered how she had not noticed them before. She tried to find another escape route, but the windows were too small for her to climb out of and the Palisades wrapped behind the cabin made any escape moot. Isala would have to leave through the front. 

As she advanced through the crowd, feeling very exposed despite her change of dress, she heard murmuring about a “Herald of Andraste”, and people wondering aloud why the Seeker had imprisoned them. Another responded that it was complicated, that everyone was afraid. Some offered blessings to her as she passed, something that made Isala feel almost as shocked as when she had first seen the Breach.

Finally, she reached the end of the crowd of people and climbed stone steps towards the upper formation of the village. Now she could see a towering structure made of wood and stone with the banner of a burning sun; the Chantry. More hushed whispers as she passed through; smaller groups of humans muttered about rifts and how the Breach was not closed completely, some again offered her greetings and blessings. Isala’s pointed ears felt hot despite the cold air and she tugged at her piercings in an attempt to calm her nerves. For a few minutes she considered trying to continue and explore the village as stealthily as possible to gather more information and get her bearings just in case, but all eyes seemed to be on her.

In the end she conceded that she would not be able to explore in peace so she headed to the Chantry to meet with Cassandra. She made a quick ascent through the rest of the village, passing chalets and more crowds of people, all abuzz with conversation and speculation. Some Chantry members stood by the grand wooden doors to their sacred building and upon seeing Isala, quieted themselves and opened the doors for her. She thanked them and entered, confused as to why they would open the large doors for an elf.

Isala sighed as the great wooden frame closed, basking in the silent emptiness of the deserted Chantry, it seemed almost everyone was outside. The cavernous interior was warm gray stone with an elaborate arched wooden ceiling. The space was dimly lit by candles and torches, and stacks of crates lined the walls along with what looked like mostly medical supplies. This was the building Cassandra had led Isala through from the prisons downstairs. 

The memory made her stiffen; Isala stilled herself for a moment to focus on her senses before she relaxed; the emptiness was true, she was alone in the hall. _Where is the Seeker?_ As Isala walked further inside, passing a few doors and religious statues, her question was answered by the shrill, angry voice of the Chancellor.

“Have you gone completely mad? She should be taken to Val Royeaux immediately, to be tried by whomever becomes Divine.” Cautiously, Isala moved towards the door where the sounds of his outburst seemed to be coming from. The shouting came from the back room of the Chantry, and the towering religious statues on either side of the walls as Isala proceeded unnerved her as much as the man’s speech.

“I do not believe she is guilty.” To her surprise, Cassandra’s rich accented voice cut in to come to her defense, tone clipped and impatient—as though she spoke through gritted teeth. An exasperated scoff, and Chancellor Roderick spoke again.

“The elf _failed_ , Seeker. The Breach is still in the sky. For all you know, she _intended_ it this way.” Isala felt exasperated, now just a few feet in front of the door. What would she gain from destruction and chaos on this scale? _What would anyone gain?_ Cassandra responded again, a note of finality in her voice.

“I _do not_ believe that.”

“That is not for you to decide. Your duty is to serve the Chantry.” Isala shook her head, _shemlen bureaucracy_. She considered the right timing to enter, pushing down her overwhelming instinct to flee.

“My duty is to serve the principles on which the Chantry was founded, Chancellor, as is yours.” Isala glanced behind her, considering the large wooden doors, and the likelihood of a successful escape, but was held in place by the memory of her promise to the Seeker and of the consequences of the Breach. It wasn't a choice she could make. Isala was needed. She had to help. She squeezed her eyes shut, before reaching forward and pushing the door open.

Inside was a room lit by torches, the flickering light from each wall illuminating Leliana, Cassandra, and Roderick, who stood around a long wooden table with a large map spread across it. Cassandra and Leliana stood next to one another, a large book on the table in front of them as their eyes turned from Roderick to her entering the room. Two guards in what looked like Templar armor stood on either side of the door, now on either side of Isala. Her heart felt like it was in her throat. The Chancellor had his hands behind his back where he was stationed at the other end of what seemed to be a war-table, but raised one to point fiercely at Isala when she entered.

“Chain her. I want her prepared for travel to the capital for trial.” Roderick gestured to the soldiers to grab Isala, who stiffened, again fighting the urge to run.

“Disregard that, and leave us.” The guards saluted and obeyed Cassandra’s instructions, paying no heed to the sputtering Chancellor as they left the room, closing the door behind them. He turned his glare on Cassandra, eyes narrowing and vitriol in his tone.

“You walk a dangerous line Seeker.” Cassandra squared her shoulders, walking forward to stand in front of him and staring back with no hint of intimidation.

“The Breach is stable, but it is still a threat. I will _not_ ignore it.” The determination and finality in Cassandra’s voice prompted Isala to speak.

“I did what you and Solas suggested, and everything in my power to close the Breach. It almost cost me my life. I do not yet know what I should do to further cull this chaos but I am committed to trying.” The Chancellor sneered at this.

“Yet you live. A convenient result, insofar as you’re concerned.” Cassandra’s eyes fell on Roderick again, her tone warning.

“Have a care, Chancellor. The Breach is not the only threat we face.” Leliana now walked over to join the others at the left end of the table.

“Someone was behind the explosion at the Conclave. Someone Most Holy did not expect. Perhaps they died with the others – or have allies who yet live.” Her gentle accent was laden with deeper meaning as she considered the older man. Chancellor Roderick shifted in surprise; his tone incredulous.

“ _I_ am a suspect?” Leliana’s stoic façade dropped for a moment as she responded, brow furrowing over steely blue eyes and tenor more fierce.

“ _Y_ _ou_ , and many others.”

“But _not_ the prisoner.” Cassandra shook her head.

“I heard the voices in the temple. The Divine called to her for help.”

“So her survival, that _thing_ on her hand—all a coincidence?” Roderick crossed his arms, shaking his head in disbelief.

“Providence. The Maker sent her to us in our darkest hour.” Isala started at this, eyes snapping to meet Cassandra’s, and seeing the conviction there. She was no messiah and she had no desire to be affiliated with the Chantry or any human faith—her own beliefs were fluid, but she respected and venerated the Gods of her people, not the Maker, and worshiped no one.

“Please, I am not any ‘Chosen One’, I neither claim nor want such status.” Cassandra frowned slightly, as though she had expected Isala to jump on the idea, _how naïve_ . “You realize that I am elven, yes?” At this prompting Cassandra shifted slightly, as though reminding herself her religion was not universal; _how like a human_.

“I have not forgotten. No matter what you are, or what you believe, you are exactly what we needed when we needed it.” Isala cocked her head, curious about what to her seemed like a sudden change of heart.

“So, you now believe I am innocent?” Cassandra again looked slightly uncomfortable, almost ashamed.

“I was wrong. Perhaps I still am. I will not, however, pretend you were not precisely what was necessary, vital, during the time when we were in need.” Leliana interjected.

“The Breach remains, and your mark is our only hope of closing it.” Roderick rejoined the conversation as well, voice tight with anger.

“This is _not_ for _you_ to decide.” Cassandra walked back to the other side of the table, picking up the large worn book that she and Leliana had been considering while they argued before Isala entered. She slammed it down on the surface between herself and Roderick, now closed so the cover was visible. 

The faded leather bindings, either old black or gray with worn silver fastenings, showed the age of the book. The emblem on the center of the cover was a silver sun with snaking tendrils of fire, an eye staring open in its heart. Cassandra pointed to the insignia on the cover, gaze steady on the older man.

“Do you know what this is, Chancellor?” The Seeker’s tone was flat, as though she knew he did. As Roderick stared at the book, shocked into silence, she continued. “A writ from the Divine, granting us authority to act. As of this moment, I declare the Inquisition reborn.” Cassandra now advanced towards Roderick, who backed away, his head shaking ever so slightly. She poked him in the chest. “We will close the Breach, we will find those responsible, and we will restore order with or without your approval.”

The man seemed beyond words and, after glaring at each of them, stalked out of the room and slammed the door behind him. Cassandra made a small noise of disgust or frustration, turning away for a moment to rub her neck and then wave her hand in the air, as though shooing away thoughts of the Chancellor, or her doubts. Leliana walked forward, eyes trained on the book as she spoke.

“This is the Divine’s directive: Rebuild the Inquisition of old. Find those who will stand against the chaos. We aren’t ready. We have no leader, no numbers, and now no Chantry support.” Cassandra rejoined them; her voice softer now but still determined.

“But we have no choice: We must act now.” She turned to Isala. “With you at our side.”

Isala felt, to say the least, overwhelmed. Her mind was spinning with curiosity and confusion, some of which was sated when she asked about the Inquisition, the Chantry, their intentions, and her own options. But again, as much as she wanted nothing to do with a military organization and nothing more than to pretend nothing was happening and curl up in a forest somewhere, or escape to the Fade, she had already given her word. Isala knew these dire conditions could not be ignored, and that she was needed. She had asked enough questions at this point, the rest would need to happen later. 

“If you are truly trying to restore order…” Leliana nodded.

“That is the plan.” Cassandra looked into the elf’s eyes, appealing.

“Help us fix this, before it is too late.” Isala walked forward from where she had been standing, closer to the door and her escape route, and offered her hand, outstretched towards the Seeker. That was how humans greeted each other or made promises, yes? Cassandra seemed pleased by this and shook her hand. The Inquisition was set in motion.

∞ ∞ ∞

Several days had passed since Isala had woken after her battle with the Breach. The village, which she now knew was called Haven, had been bustling with all floods of people and various tasks and missions. Cassandra, Leliana, and their colleagues had set into motion the strategic movements necessary for the birth of the new Inquisition. During that time Isala had explored Haven, getting to know the people and workers in the hamlet and helping to take care of necessary tasks as well as gather supplies. She had even received new armor from the Blacksmith, Harritt. It was a bit heavy for Isala’s taste and rather uncomfortable since it was not what she was used to but she appreciated it all the same. That didn’t mean, however, that she wasn’t anxious to use the schematics she knew to forge Dalish armor. Isala had been able to craft a new staff for herself, but was eager to find more materials to make a more advanced weaponry and armor as soon as possible.

New and uncomfortable material worries aside, Isala had spoken more with Cassandra and Varric during this time. She had grown closer to the dwarf at a rate that surprised herself; something about his charm made it worryingly easy to be his friend. Cassandra, on the other hand, was more awkward and stubborn, but well-intentioned. After speaking with the warrior further Isala felt she could come to like the Seeker, even if they did not see eye-to-eye. 

Their mysterious elven companion, however, made Isala feel unsettled, as well as mildly annoyed. Something about Solas’ attitude, as though he possessed unfettered knowledge and knew it but would only share bits and pieces, made Isala see an elitism in him that had, so far, prevented her from speaking with him in depth despite her curiosity. She could tell from her few interactions with him that he was kind with a gentle nature and rapier wit, but still━something in his attitude stirred something in Isala; a mix of confusion, nostalgia, and a perplexing frustration. She would continue keeping her exchanges with him to a minimum as she continued to observe him. She was saddened by this though; she had first felt relieved to see another elf but Solas seemed to resent elves, or at least all elves who weren’t him. She couldn't help but wonder what in his past had caused him to feel that way...

While ruminating on her companions, Isala sat on a large boulder outside of the Chantry, waiting for Cassandra who had requested to meet there. She shifted in her armor, still trying to get used to the human style. Its tight breeches hugged her legs but did not breathe like Dalish leather wrappings, and her feet felt stuffy in the black leather boots she had been given. The upper body armor was heavy and the deep green cloth of the long sleeves and high collar felt like they were smothering her. Not to mention the chest plate weighed her down as much as it protected her. Isala sighed, reminding herself she had decided to put material quibbles aside. Still, she really would have to sketch the schematics and find materials for armor she was more comfortable with. Isala just had to make sure when she proposed them to the blacksmith, Harritt, she wouldn’t step on his toes, or disclose the closed knowledge of her clan.

As she struggled to push thoughts of her clan from her mind Isala fiddled with her hair; eyeing a few strands that had slipped loose from the long plait down her back. Isala’s muddled pondering was interrupted by other further disorganizing thoughts and she shifted, trying to get comfortable in her awkward armor and surroundings. She brought her fingers from her hair back to the leather cords she had been weaving into additional utilities for her armor. She was finishing the elaborate design and tying it off using her nails and teeth when the Seeker walked up to her, offering a hesitant smile. Cassandra gestured towards the Chantry, and Isala hopped down from her perch to follow the woman inside.

As they proceeded towards the war room, the mark on Isala’s hand sent a shock of heat through her arm, and she looked down at it, flexing her fingers. The apothecary Adan, as well as Solas and some mages who were part of the Inquisition, had all been unable to determine the nature of the mark, let alone remove it. Isala’s own investigations only ended in her confirming what Solas had communicated to her; the mark could be used to disrupt rifts and seal them, and it reacted to magic related to the Fade. She couldn't help feeling irked that her research had confirmed what he’d told her. Isala sighed and looked up from her hand to see Cassandra considering her with a concerned gaze.

“Does it trouble you?” Isala smiled wryly in response to the question.

“At the moment, most everything troubles me.” She was rewarded with a low chuckle. “It has stopped spreading, and no longer pains me.” In reality it still hurt occasionally, but she kept this to herself. “I just wish I knew more about what it is, what it _does_ ,” she looked at the mark again, the gash of green light thrumming in her hand. “how it came to be.” Cassandra nodded.

“We take our victories when we can. Do not worry; we will find out.” She turned to face Isala as they stopped in front of the door to the war room. “What’s important is that your mark is now stable, as is the Breach. You’ve given us time, and Solas believes that a second attempt might succeed—provided the mark has more power. The same level of power used to open the Breach in the first place. That is not easy to come by.” Isala raised her brows at this, _certainly not_.

“Couldn’t power on that scale potentially make matters worse?” Cassandra snorted.

“And people call me a pessimist.” Isala felt a bit droll and decided to voice her unfiltered thoughts.

“What harm could there be in giving more power to something we barely understand?” Another soft laugh from the Seeker.

“Hold on to that sense of humor, we will need it.” Cassandra gestured to the door and opened it for Isala, who walked inside. 

The room was the same as when she had last been inside, though her company differed slightly. Full bookcases still lined portions of the wall, each of which held small carved indents with torches and religious figures carved into the stone. The long wooden war table still had the map of Thedas on its surface, but it was now scattered with what resembled pieces of a game Isala had played a few times, chess she believed, as well as various books and papers. Even a few blades were scattered about the table, one even piercing the wood through the map. Isala pitied the cartographer who had likely spent months laboring over the parchment only to have their work stabbed for effect. Now standing around the table was Leliana’s familiar face, the rogue smiling at Isala as their eyes met, as well as two people Isala had seen in passing around Haven as they took care of necessary business for the Inquisition.

“May I present Commander Cullen, leader of the Inquisition’s forces.” Cassandra gestured towards the tall human man with copper eyes above dark circles from sleeplessness and slightly curly blonde hair. His armor was impressive; shining silver plate and red fabric against black leather and cloth; the fur mantle on his shoulders the most impressive feature. The man, Cullen, sighed and clicked his tongue, looking down for a moment.

“Such as they are. We lost many soldiers in the valley, and I fear many more before this is through.” 

Isala nodded a greeting and Cassandra motioned for her to look at the other stranger in the room. Her brown skin glowed like bronze in the torchlight, silky black hair pulled back neatly into a bun. Her gold and blue ruffled clothing was a stark contrast to the commander’s more austere armor. Warm brown eyes sparkled as she smiled, straight nose and full lips made her face welcoming, and she had one hand poised with a quill over layers of parchment on a small plaque of wood.

“This is lady Josephine Montilyet, our ambassador and chief diplomat.” Josephine smiled pleasantly, surname and thickly accented voice confirming for Isala what her clothes had made her suspect; this human was Antivan.

“ _Andaran Atish'an_.” Isala smiled at the familiar greeting and felt her shoulders relax a bit.

“ _Aneth'ara, ma serannas sul vhalla_. Thank you for the welcome. Do you speak Elvish?” Josephine smiled again, this time rather sheepishly.

“You’re just heard the entirety of it, I’m afraid.” Nonetheless, Isala was grateful, clinging to the moment of comfort and familiarity and smiling once again at the diplomat. Finally, Cassandra gestured to where the red headed rogue stood, hands behind her back, hood up as usual.

“And of course, you know Sister Leliana.” The rogue opened her mouth, she seemed to be considering her words carefully.

“My position here involves a degree of—” The Seeker cut in.

“She is our spymaster.” Leliana gave a wry smile.

“Yes. Tactfully put, Cassandra.” Isala nodded her greeting again, expressing her pleasure in meeting them. The conversation that followed was surprising to say the least; they wanted Isala to visit Mother Giselle of the Chantry in the Hinterlands in search of aid. 

They were sending an elven mage to beseech a revered mother? Still, Isala conceded to doing so as the conflict between rebel mages and templars was rife there. She kept it to herself that she believed the Inquisition should not have high hopes from the meeting.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A perfect example of human nonsense is having to join a historically fascist and violent military organization despite very much just wanting to go to sleep and zip up that annoying hole in the sky.
> 
> Elvish featured in text:  
> Ahnsul ane ma geal'un (why are you frightened)  
> *others are well-known or repeated translated in text


	6. CHAPTER VI: Shiral Enal

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Months have passed since the Inquisiton was founded and Isala was thrust into the chaos with the burden of responsibility as a sole savior and sealer of rifts. The rush of violence and action along with the pressure and unfamiliarity of her new environment and position are wearing on her, but she cannot stop. The mages have been recruited. The templars have been disbanded. Now all that remains is for the Breach to be sealed...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Shiral Enal (Journey Begins)
> 
> Wasn't sure how to write this chapter but here it is; not satisfied but the following chapters will be better!  
> Translations for Elvish are in the end notes

The continued growth of the Inquisition and Isala’s work as an agent had meant the past months had been a blur. She and her party had rendered aid to the people in the Hinterlands before expanding out through Thedas, sealing rifts and helping people to defend themselves and begin to recover from the violence and chaos that had ripped through the regions. Having witnessed the thick of the conflict between templars and mages as well as the Breach, Isala could now see the full extent of the chaos. Even with her realization early on concerning the implications of the strife as well as her knowledge of the consequences, she had not been prepared for the full breadth of reality. Never before had she needed to engage in battle in such quick succession. It seemed every day spent in the field meant countless battles with templars driven by instilled fear, mages by rage and desperation, and spirits by the potent and tumultuous discord of the conflict, let alone the everyday chaos. 

Once they had moved out of the region where it was most concentrated, Isala had naively hoped there would be less strife...but she had been disappointed. Chaos and violence reigned throughout Thedas, pockets of calm in between. She could only take comfort in the calm and recovery that followed in the wake of her and the Inquisition. As much as Isala hated being part of an organization tied to the corrupt institution of the Chantry and steeped in religious fanaticism and militarism, she could see they were making a difference. She felt that, although she would not have chosen months ago to be where she was now, she could still feel glad to be in a position where she was able to help others. 

Isala shifted as she walked through the gates of Haven, rolling her shoulders and feeling the ache in her muscles. She had used and gained more stamina in the past few months than she had in her entire life so far, something that made her feel more secure, but did not negate her exhaustion. Even though the Inquisition, its leading members following _her_ lead for some odd reason, had allied with the mages and disbanded the templars, Isala still felt sorely unprepared for what they needed to do. Tonight was the night they would seal the Breach, and the memories of the future she had seen, both through the envy demon and in reality due to the time magic in Redcliffe....Isala could not fail. Now more than ever that was clear to her, and it weighed her down as much as the mundane unfamiliarity of her surroundings. As trivial as it might be to others, particularly amidst the chaos, Isala was homesick. She was so anxious and tense about the prospects of failure that she fixated on this as a tangible longing she could sink into.

She missed the sounds of home. The bustle of her clan as they moved through the steps of their daily tasks with the rhythm and flow of a dance, the sound of halla in the distance, the rustle of heavy foliage overhead or the soft whisper of grass on the plains. When they traveled along the coastline the scent of brine and the gentle lapping of waves against the rocky sand was as comforting and familiar as a lullaby.

Even the smells were different here...she had heard people complain that Ferelden smelled like wet dog, but had thought they were simply being rude, or facetious. 

They had not been. 

She wouldn’t mind so much if that overlying scent didn’t overpower the natural fragrance of the world around her; cutting her off from fully trying to enjoy her new surroundings and finding familiarity amidst them. Isala had already been separated from her clan for years at a time, but this was a different type of separation, and not one of her own choosing. 

The whisper of basket weaving, the shrieking laughter of children, the soft melody of hymns and lullabies that threaded in and out, the rasping sound of a halla rubbing its horns against a nearby tree, the crackle of fire and the laboring tone of ironbark being molded. The lilting rhythm of Elvish spoken as naturally as breathing, the shucking of clams, and cheers of fishermen, the tanning of leather, the scent of blood from a fresh kill amidst the rich smells of meals cooking over an open fire...all of these things were home.

This place was not.

The sounds in this unfamiliar place had not grown more harmonious despite the considerable length of time she had now spent in Haven; the cacophony of voices and activity were foreign and jarring. She felt overwhelmed and alone in this symphony of alien sounds. Isala knew her homesickness would likely be considered childish or absurd, but that didn’t change what she felt. Her grasp of common was very good, she was curious about other languages and had needed to learn it as First since the ability to communicate is an invaluable skill Keepers must hone in order to protect and provide for their clan, after all. And yet...there were times when Isala would feel lost; as though she had been swept up in a current and dragged along, struggling to keep up with the violent tug of fluency these people toted with such ease. Oftentimes she would find herself lost in the midst of a conversation, a term escaping her or a word landing wrong on her ears where she couldn’t quite grasp its meanng. The elves in Haven did not speak much Elvish either, looking uncomfortable when Isala had spoken in the tongue. 

All of this was further weighed down with the title that grated on Isala’s ears like a jagged knife against her skin.

 _The Herald of Andraste_. 

She almost felt as if she could laugh at the absurdity of it, if the bizarre nature of that label and all that went with it didn’t feel as though it was pulling her apart each time it was uttered. _Her?_ An _elf?_ A _Dalish_ elf _?_ The _Herald_ of _Andraste_ ? Shartan might have followed Andraste in the past, and some among her people might still harbor respect for the prophet, but that didn’t mean they all believed the Maker to be real, or would be willing to believe Isala to be touched by something divine. She certainly didn’t. The thought alone filled her with fear and disgust. All the Chantry had done to her people, and those that believed in that religion had the gall to call _her_ the _Herald of Andraste_ ? Perhaps Isala would not have faulted them for that alone, understanding the circumstances were unusual to say the least, but what frustrated her the most was the way _no one would listen to her_. 

She asked not to be called the Herald of Andraste, and yet they did.

She begged not to be called the Herald of Andraste, and yet she was.

She vehemently denied being the Herald of Andraste, and yet nothing she said seemed to deter them, even her own companions, from doing just that.

Months had now passed since the Inquisition had begun and life for Isala had been whipping by with no time to do so much as take a breath. Completing necessary missions, gaining more resources, recruiting people, closing rifts; all of these tasks had meant consistent travel and conflict, and all the while Isala had endured that title that she so desperately wanted to be rid of. It clung to her like shackles, suffocated her like smoke, pulled at her like claws, weighed on her like stone. 

What was it about organized religion that made them so indifferent to the voice of someone who did not believe? The very person these masses claimed to be the messiah and were engaging in acts dangerously close to idolatry for emphatically denied that status and begged for them to cease and yet they _would not listen_. Each time Isala heard the words “Herald of Andraste” it felt like needles under her skin, ice in her veins, fire in her cheeks from equal parts anger and shame. From one side she would hear that hated title, on the other the slur of “knife-ear,” sometimes even both titles in the same breath. Sometimes she almost felt as though she had no allies. None felt as she did. Or none close enough to listen in full and try to understand. All that she had accomplished along with all she had been through so far had drained Isala. 

Still, when she pushed aside the frustration and fear she appreciated the many interesting people she had met along the way. Though not all of her companions listened to her requests not to be called the Herald, such as Cassandra and Blackwall, Isala knew that despite this they were on her side. Varric also insisted on calling her “Herald” once in a while, but the humor in his tone revealed it as an inside joke, so she would forgive it. Though she much preferred his nickname for her of “scholar.” 

At this moment, walking through Haven, she was trying to push aside such thoughts as another elven worker turned their gaze down as a show of respect and muttered that cursed title under their breath as she passed. All of Isala’s attempts to become friendly with elves in Haven had so far been fruitless, and as she was returning from their last excursion through the Fallow Mire, she didn’t have the energy to make any attempts today. 

After a quick bath and a change of clothes Isala felt slightly more revitalized, and headed up an incline behind the Chantry to sit on the snowy bank amidst the trees and enjoy some solitude in one of her rare free moments. 

Isala had gone from minimal contact with other people for months at a time to meeting new people almost every hour, and had trouble keeping up with it all. She enjoyed finding time and places to be by herself and not have to worry about maintaining the pace, saying the wrong thing, or not being understood or listened to when she spoke. She climbed the snowy slope with ease, sliding a woven mat and one of her furs underneath a tree to settle in and analyze their options.

They had allied with the mages and disbanded the templars. The quests had been grueling...to say the least. Isala was still plagued by nightmares and phantom pains. The apocalyptic future she had witnessed in Redcliffe with the Tevinter mage Dorian...the things she’d seen and experienced...as a Dreamer it had been especially difficult. The magic and demons brought to bear caused her pain both mentally and physically, and the empathy she had felt for what her companions and everyone else had suffered for the year that had passed for them if not for her had been overwhelming. 

During Redcliffe she had needed to focus part of her mana on healing herself even as she tried to comb through that future and save the people in their current time, as well as prevent or resolve the suffering of those in that timeline. And seeing her companions infected by red lyrium, particularly Solas...she didn’t understand it but she couldn’t bear to see him like that. It tore at something inside her, something she couldn’t yet name. Sometimes she woke from nightmares that had invaded her dream explorations; taunting her that she had failed, that she would bring about the end of the world, and her people, and all entities. Isala had to avoid meeting with spirits while dreaming for fear she would warp them with her emotions. 

And then in addition, there was Envy. Even after they had succeeded and disbanded the templars, Isala found that sometimes she would hesitate. She questioned herself: recalling the cold sharpness of her own voice, the mocking lilt of her own laughter, the cruel contortion of her own face. In such a moment of hesitation she had seen Cassandra's eyes; wary and dark with worry, her hand on the hilt of her sword, fingers itching to draw out the metal. It had broken something inside Isala and created a wall. One of ice she could not break down. The doubt some of her companions had shown over her not being possessed had created distance; another breach she was currently incapable of closing. 

The psychological consequences of her experiences would take a toll on her, she could sense it. Perhaps they were already doing so. She knew she needed to address them, but now...it was still too raw, and things were moving too quickly. Isala would deal with it on her own, in time. Now though, more decisions awaited her, such as what to do next, and what to expect with the two unprecedented changes she had brought upon Thedas with her choices. How long would those singing “the Herald” praises continue to do so as Isala starkly defied the Chantry and its rhetoric. How far could she go before the “audacity” of an elf became too much for those with power.

A low rumble sounded overhead, the green vortex in the sky pulsing as if in tandem with her heavy contemplations. The Breach’s dormancy was growing weaker, and Solas had warned her and the others that action must be taken soon to truly seal it. Isala felt curious, and a bit wary, of how he was so well-informed and confident in his estimations about the Breach, but respected his input. She stopped her deliberations for a moment and looked up to the sky. Emerald light flashed through the clouds as she watched, entranced. As she stared upwards, the man in question walked up behind Isala, ascending the slope with ease and standing still beside her, hands linked casually behind his back. He gazed down at her, expression a mask of passive curiosity, his long dark hair was arranged in a simple braid, and the green light from the Breach gave it and his sepia skin a soft glow. 

“I hear you are still experiencing the after-effects of your conflict with Envy, and the future you say you experienced.” She tilted her head at his voice but did not turn to look at him. He spoke the common tongue, so she responded in kind.

“How could I not be. Having my mind touched by such a creature is excruciating, let alone as I am....” Isala trailed off, not yet ready to share that she was a Dreamer. Shaking her head slightly she continued: “And for many that future may have never come to pass, but the people of that time experienced it.” Isala pushed down a shiver, closing her eyes for a moment as the memories resurfaced and the phantom pain pressed in the back of her mind. “As did I.” Solas considered her, his expression unreadable. 

“You are certain you experienced time travel? Could it have been an illusion, a trick of the Fade?” Isala looked at him then, one eyebrow arched as she gave him a wry smile. Over the past few months they had spoken more. Well, it was more accurate that they had argued, but now they had settled more comfortably in debates, challenging and teaching one another. She found that, although at first he had seemed elitist and prejudiced, he was willing to listen and learn once he was challenged, and more than willing to teach when respected. They were still not friends exactly, but they were amicable. Now, behind his expression of casual interest Isala saw the curiosity burning in his eyes that muted the slight irritation she felt over him doubting her.

“I am a mage, Solas. I believe I can tell the difference. And I’ve been to the Fade countless times since my magic surfaced. I would know.” He smiled softly, glancing down for a moment as though chiding himself or reminded of something. 

“Point taken. My apologies...we have discussed this before but I remain,” he paused, as though considering his words, “intrigued.” Isala felt a smile tugging at a corner of her lips but didn’t give into it. He wasn’t lying, but she was sure that wasn’t quite the word he had been thinking. 

“I can understand incredulity, or doubt. I appreciate the discussion...most people would likely have trouble accepting the premise let alone contemplating the idea.” A low chuckle.

“I am not most people. If you wish me to speak of Orlesian fashion I may be at a loss...magical surprises I can handle.” Isala laughed at this, amused both by Solas’ show of modesty, and his refusal to actually admit to being at a loss. 

“Speaking of which...Are you prepared for tonight? Sealing the Breach?.” She tilted her head, considering, and after a moment had passed nodded an affirmation. They didn’t know the Elder One’s identity, nor the extent of the mysterious antagonist’s power or influence...it would be best to try and tame the largest threat in order to divert time, resources, and energy into facing this enemy. In response to her confirmation Solas nodded in approval. Something in his gaze made Isala feel as though he wished to say something else, but instead he turned slightly, chin lifting up as he looked at the vortex of emerald light in the sky, cold breeze shifting his hair as he did so. 

“Then you had best prepare yourself. The mages and templars are finished with their preparations. If you are ready, we will attempt to seal the Breach this evening.” He looked back to Isala, smiling softly. “It would be unwise to take on such a venture without precautions. We cannot know how this attempt to seal the Breach will affect the anchor.” Solas hesitated, the tone of his voice changing faintly, taking on something like softness. “Or you.” 

She looked into his eyes, trying to discern his expression, but couldn’t decipher his true feelings. Everything was happening so quickly...as they had been for the past few months. The passage of time seemed to whip by her at increasing speeds as more and more issues came to the Inquisition’s attention. Chaos and destruction with no reprieve in sight...Isala closed her eyes, shaking away the grip of pessimism from her thoughts. She returned her gaze to Solas, giving a wan smile, expression tired, but determined. 

“Tonight it is, then.” She tilted her face to the sky, closing her eyes again as she spoke a prayer. 

“ _Mythal, ga’lanalin. Ama em’an. Inana tarsul em'an sul vir ar'an vira is diane or enfenim. Dirthamen ghi’la em’an. Fen’harel itha tel’el vir. Myhtal’enaste_." 

When Isala’s eyes opened again, she could not decipher Solas’ expression, but there was something like wry humor, and maybe sorrow, in his gaze. She wondered whether that boded ill.

∞ ∞ ∞

It was done. The Breach was sealed. More than the joy and relief sung and shouted by Haven’s reveling occupants, Isala felt exhaustion. The members of the village and the Inquisition were celebrating, the cold night air warmed by cries of exaltation and the scent of fires and alcohol. She watched the celebrations, feeling disconnected from their joy. The Breach may have been sealed, but that wasn’t the end. It was still suspended in the sky, and rifts yet remained throughout Thedas, needing to be closed. 

This moment of victory was necessary for these people, she knew, but nonetheless her arm ached with the burning thrum of the mark and the echoes of the Breach’s pull. Her body felt fragile and brittle, as though one strong wrench could tear her apart. Her head throbbed, her mana was low, and she desperately wanted simply to rest. She had succeeded in separating herself from the festivities, watching over those dancing or speaking animatedly with one another, but she couldn’t retreat quite yet, not when they still might have need of her, or at least her presence. 

Cassandra had come to speak to her earlier, praising Isala for her role in sealing the Breach. Solas, on the other hand, had been observing her from a distance ever since. He had examined her and the mark after the Breach was sealed, gaze and touch intent, emotions flitting through his eyes that she couldn’t decipher exhausted as she was. At the time she had felt relieved and proud. But now....now she couldn’t even summon the energy to feel pride. 

She turned away from the revelers, deciding finally that it was enough, her body needed rest, but as she did the alarm bell rang. Isala spun, eyes searching for whatever had caused the warning signal, and saw what she had missed as she focused her gaze on the celebrations. 

Torches. Hundreds of flames marched over the snow laden hills in the distance.

Everyone sprang into motion as Solas came up behind her saying this boded poorly in a grim voice, Cassandra’s frantic and confused, Varric’s resigned. From then on Isala’s memory broke down the events in flashes.

_Labored breathing, cold air like fire in her lungs, the scent of blood and flame all too hot and real. The cacophony of metal on metal as bodies and weapons clashed, spells shouted in desperation and disdain. The flash of magic or a blade, the feeling of heat against her skin to the point where she couldn’t tell if it was a burn, a cut, or the rain of blood as another falls. The bodies of enemies and allies alike strewn on the ground like marionette’s whose strings had been cut. Over it all the roar of voices as some cried out for mercy, others championing their cause, others simply yelling for the sake of there being sound besides the rhythm of their own heartbeat and the fear in their mind as they fought on despite the terror and the pain. Red templars and venatori flooding in from the mountains, madness and rage rolling off of them like needles against her skin. For every person they saved three more fell. She had saved those she could but so many whose names she hadn’t even known lay broken on the snow, pure white stained red with blood and blackened by spellfire and soot. They had to reach the trebuchets, if there was any hope of survival, any chance for any of them to live--_

_Then he came. The Elder One. Warped features and piercing eyes that showed only judgment and hunger. His nightmare form towered far taller than most mortals and wrapped in grotesque armor that had melded with his shape. His long, claw-like fingers, and limbs were like those of a giant spider and he moved like a beast that had slept for too long and was still stiff. This entity walked like a being who was owed everything and would take it by any means he deemed necessary. He cared nothing for cost._

_The orb he carried felt familiar and seemed to reach out before he activated it, the red snaking into her and trying to pull her apart as he spoke cryptically in a hollow voice that grated her ears and made her feel nauseous. He made claims to knowledge and power no mortal being should have and bent a corrupted dragon to his will. He called her rattus._

_When he touched Isala’s marked arm and held her up like a child lifting a broken toy she had recoiled in equal parts pain and disgust. His breath smelled of death as the anchor seemed to scream and writhe within her skin, the pull from the orb in the Elder One’s mangled hand seemed to try and tear it from her being and every fiber of her being was wracked with the agony._

_“You are nothing. A mistake.” Words she had heard before. Words she had tried throughout the years to forget and resist believing. Then she was against the trebuchet, head ringing, ribs broken, vision blurring as blood clouded her vision. The being spoke again, claiming Isala had ruined the mark. That she was a rival he could not afford to let live. But she could not die. Not here. Not like this. Through the red haze and falling ash she saw the opening, the snow covered mountains in the distance, the trebuchet armed and ready to be released. The words came before the plan was even fully formed. She could not die._

_“Mar solas ju’ea mar ha’lam. Ar ju’tel’dina i mar da’lav." Her magic lashed out. The trebuchet loosed. His head turned in slow, arrogant disinterest. She only had a brief moment to enjoy the look of surprise and rage on his face before she turned and sprinted towards the underground passage entrance, arms holding her side, stave nowhere in sight, companions seemingly long gone or hidden by the flames. She heard the dragon give a keening roar that echoed jarringly in the valley as she leapt, already feeling the hungry barrage of snow rushing behind her like the tide, ready to sweep her away to be lost._

_She fell._

∞ ∞ ∞

Isala had to claw into waking, fighting with the stiffness of her limbs and the cold knife of freezing air in her lungs to reach consciousness. Every breath was painful and blood had dried over her eyes, almost sealing them shut. She could feel her broken ribs and the cuts covering her body throbbing; her body stiff with the pain and the cold. Gingerly, she raised an arm to wipe the blood from her eyelids, opening them to see--nothing.

Her surroundings were dark, but she smelled the dank scent of wet rock and stagnant air that told her she was underground. Looking above, Isala’s sight adjusted to the dark, elven vision meaning she could now see clearly. The entrance to the mining caverns was sealed with tightly packed snow, almost wall-like in its solidity. The ground around her was covered in it as well, bits of debris cradled within the stark white. She struggled to stand, scanning her surroundings to make sure she was alone. 

She was. Completely. 

The avalanche’s seal meant all outside sounds were blocked out, the only noise that of her own labored breathing and the soft music of water hitting stone. She stood there for a moment, suspended, almost afraid to take a step. 

But she did.

Isala left the stone alcove of the underground tunnels, walking slowly as she tried to summon mana to heal herself, but couldn’t summon enough to do her much good. The uneven ground beneath her already unsteady feet made Isala feel as though she was walking on the ocean tide, but she pushed onwards. The light at the end of the tunnel....a cliche analogy, but the real thing made her cry out in elation, quickly dampened as she reached the mouth of the caverns and was met with a vast expanse of white.

It seemed endless. The air almost opaque with the turmoil of wind and snow, shapes indistinct amidst the tempest.

The journey through the storm was grueling. Her surroundings were nondescript and difficult to discern with the snow and wind, mountains seeming infinite, trees bent so far they seemed as though they would break. And Isala amidst it all, stumbling and swaying, blown over by the gale and trembling from the cold. She didn’t know how long the journey lasted. Trails of embers and debris, the fires long cooled and signs of life long gone by the time she reached them. As though she was always two steps behind salvation. 

As Isala walked onward her mind cycled through thoughts and emotions. 

_She was not the Herald of anything._

_She had stolen nothing._

_She had not sought out the anchor nor its power._

_She did not want to compete with this arrogant creature for godhood._

_She did not want to dedicate herself to an organization traditionally affiliated with an institution that she detested and distrusted._

Why had this happened? What did the Elder One really want from her? Why did people have to worship her for this? Why did people have to die for _this_?

Miles of snow. A seemingly eternal expanse of white. Returning not to anything familiar, but to these yet foreign people that remained her only solace. 

She wanted to go _home_ . Desperately, painfully, more than her wounds she felt that desire as a palpable ache. As though every fiber of her being sought out the idea of going _home_. 

But she couldn’t.

That hurt worse than the storm.

The wind howled and beat her, the moaning of its barrage accompanied by a wolf’s song, mournful and seeming to draw closer before pulling away, as though calling her forward. 

Isala continued onward until she felt she couldn’t move another step. The air had cleared, the winds stilled and the snow halted, and she saw the horizon in the distance, dawn preparing to rise. A white wolf watched her on a precipice far above, gaze intent, nose lifted to the wind in search of a scent. Not knowing this, she reached a fire, its embers still warm. Isala rounded the corner of these stony snow laden peaks, caught sight of the expanse of tents and small fires in the valley below, and fell to her knees. She heard the voices of Commander Cullen and Cassandra as her vision once again went black. But at least it was a reprieve from the white.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> On to Skyhold! And relationship development...
> 
> Elvish featured in text:  
> Mythal, ga’lanalin. Ama em’an (Mythal, all-mother. Protect us.)  
> Inana tarsul em'an sul vir ar'an vira is diane or enfenim (watch over us for our path is full of fear)  
> Dirthamen ghi’la em’an (Dirthamen guide us)  
> Fen’harel itha tel’el vir (Fen’harel look not our way)  
> Mar solas ju’ea mar ha’lam (your pride will be your end)  
> Ar ju’tel’dina i mar da’lav (I will not die by your hand)


	7. CHAPTER VII: Eolasa, Inana, Dirthala

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Months have passed since Isala became Inquisitor, and the burden of the title still weighs heavy. It has been almost a year since the Inquisition was founded but there is still much to be done. During an excursion Isala reaches her breaking point with Solas; words are exchanged, relationships and perspectives changed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Eolasa, Inana, Dirthala (To Know, To Watch, To Learn)
> 
> Tension Time  
> Translations for Elvish are in the end notes. They're rather long so I recommend having the end notes open in another window so you can translate as you read along :)

She could still hear the singing, still hear them cheering. Countless voices raised in exaltation and celebration. Her skin had been clammy in the cold air, breathing quick with fear, heart like a bird beating itself against a cage to escape. _The dawn will come._ A promise, or a curse.

They had bowed to her, _knelt_ to her. They had sung to her, but not her song. Not her people’s song. But theirs. They wanted to make her _theirs_ . Isala had stood there in the snowy mountains, nowhere to run, her body aching, head pounding both with exhaustion and the implications of what had happened, what she had survived, and then they had done _this_. Idolatrized her. 

She remembered her lungs burning with the cold air mixed with despair, running up the slope as the last threads of the song were sung; a chasm of echoes created by the then cruel-looking peaks of the mountains. She had backed away slowly before running, they hadn’t even been looking at her. They looked _through_ her without seeing her, the emotion in their faces made her skin crawl and she _ran_. Up a snowy bank, up to a precipice, overlooking the white expanse of snow she had just escaped from, now so much more inviting than the burning tributes to a leviathan religion below. The song seemed to resonate in her mind, its words a promise, not of hope to her, but of inevitability. 

She didn’t want to be theirs.

She couldn't be.

Solas had approached her, gentle, his eyes dark with emotions she could not place, drawing as she was in her own. He had spoken more gently than he ever had before in the past months, his tone like that of an adult soothing a weeping child. Had she wept? Isala couldn’t remember. He had spoken of the orb, claiming it as their own. _Their_ own. _Theirs_ . Her peoples’. _It is ours_ , he’d said. _Ours_ . Veilfire, the flames without heat, his steady gaze seeing her, _truly_ seeing...she had found solace in that moment with him. Learning and discussing together; the idolatry of the Inquisition out of her mind for a blissful moment of peace, she had hoped it had passed.

But it hadn’t. And they hadn’t stopped there.

They had made her Inquisitor.

 _Inquisitor_.

They had not asked before they drew her up to that stony precipice. Isala had felt as though she was being pushed off when they presented her with the blade, forged in fire and blooded by centuries of conquest. Sometimes she felt they might as well have. What choice had she had? There was no denying this supposed “boon” they had thrust upon her. 

_Inquisitor._

The word felt odd in her mouth, and tasted bitter; less like medicine than like poison. She didn’t know which one the position would be to her, or to the world. But still, they had raised Isala up through no will of her own. But there was no undoing the past. She would have to lead. And if she had to lead, she would do it for elves and mages and all those marginalized in Thedas. For The People. _Her_ people. What would they think of her? “Herald of Andraste?” Leader of the Inquisition? 

Isala closed her eyes, offering a prayer to the Creators that her work and this heavy title would not be in vain. That she would not repeat the actions of the last Inquisitions. That she would not bring shame or harm to the People. That she was enough.

The weight of the sword in her hands, so heavy she could barely lift it. The cheers, the hope and expectation in the eyes of these people, looking through her, at her, at an idea of her. 

She could not fail.

She _had_ to be enough.

Skyhold, at least, was welcome. The title of Inquisitor was a burden but the fortress was a comfort. Isala loved to wander the halls of the ancient structure, finding new passages and hidden rooms, scrolls and books left for centuries untouched to be poured over by her for hours, the places where the roof had fallen through and gave a glimpse of the sky made her feel less trapped, though they would soon be closed. She asked the workers not to remove the vines and other plant life that had grown within the halls, though. They were a part of the structure now, and made it feel more alive. 

Beyond the fortress itself, Fereldan in origin, the magic Isala sensed in Skyhold was immense and difficult to interpret...she could gather that this place, ‘ _Tarasyl'an Te'las_ ,’ was named “the place where the sky was held back.” She was curious about the origin of the name, and hoped it was a good omen for their future. 

Knowing the peak on which the fortress rested had been tended and utilized by elves before its walls were brought to bear gave Isala comfort. The magic that permeated those walls was familiar and yet foreign, like a secret whispered in a language she had forgotten. Walking the gardens called her most; as though there was something pulling her to look deeper, ask more. Like the remnants of the tree in the war room, like the frescos Solas painted in his veranda, like the pull from the mountain itself. Familiar and foreign in one. 

At that moment, however, Isala stared not at the flaming colors of the Skyhold gardens’ trees, nor at the aged wood of the war table, but up at the green expanse of natural canopy above her. The ply of soft soil beneath her bare feet and the gentle caress of tall grass almost erased everything that had come to pass, but not quite. More often than not these past several months Isala found herself swept up in memories and emotions of past events. Still, despite the continued current of changes and decisions she was lulled by the soft hum of the wind, the bird’s song, the quiet whisper of the breeze, and the hushed permanence of the trees. The peace of the forest drew Isala, for a moment, into blissful contentment. The Emerald Graves brought back memories of her travels through plains, forests, and Elven ruins before the Conclave. Before Haven. Before “Inquisitor.” 

_Inquisitor_...

Isala’s ruminations were interrupted by Solas’ voice, continuing his lecture, speaking heatedly in complex Elvish, as though challenging her on whether she could understand. He was disparaging the Dalish again. Did he never tire of it? What made him look down on them so? What made him feel he was the leading expert on her people, _their_ people? He spoke again, voice low but insistent.

“-- _d_ _a’len banal las halamshir var Elvhen. Banal’athim—ma ane felas’len—tel’then_.” She turned, eyes cold.

“ _Venavis. Halam sahlin. Tel’dirthera emma el’era. Elvhen—nae—Da’len elvarel dirthara._ ” Cassandra and Varric stood in stunned silence, baffled by whatever exchange was happening between their elven companions. Cole looked on calmly, unwavering in the face of the dispute. Isala had spun towards Solas, whose eyes widened slightly with surprise, which only made her angrier. Varric muttered something under his breath, sighing and turning a blame-filled gaze on the tall elven man.

Her white braid swung behind her as Isala stood up straight, staff gripped tightly in her hands, the ground beneath its blade blanketed with frost. Her fingers tingled with that familiar rhythm of power, her anger like ice. Gold eyes burned down into violet blue pools for once, looking down on him from where she stood above him on the small hill, the air nearly crackling with energy. The ground at her feet seemed to ripple, roots seeming to claw up from the ground in tandem with her anger. Cassandra let out a small gasp, hand falling to the hilt of her sword, but neither mage flinched, knowing Isala’s magic was no threat, just a manifestation of her emotions, and a warning. Her voice was as cold and even as the ice beneath her stave’s blade when she spoke.

“ _Ma dhrua mar on’el? Es ghi’la banal, athlanal Dalish delavir, tel’then. Ahn or ma? Telir Solas; banal sul’amelan—erathe virelan, ehn nuvi'sulena theneras._ _Ma banal las halamshir var vhen_.” Solas’ expression shifted from surprise to what looked almost like guilt, and he averted his gaze, dark hair swaying as he did so. His eyes turned to the ground and an emotion Isala could not place passed across his face. He quickly collected himself, his expression softening, mouth curving into a rather mournful smile.

“ _Irr’abelas, Da’len._ ” Isala stood her ground for a moment longer, maintaining her position until she saw more of a visible shift in Solas’ manner. He relaxed from his former position with his shoulders squared, now leaning casually against his staff, eyes intent on hers. She considered him for a moment before allowing the ice to dissipate, the roots to return to the earth. Isala looked him over briefly before turning on her heel to continue their move forward, satisfied, at least for now. Cassandra moved to follow, her nervous expression shifting to one of wry annoyance. 

“I wish you mages would just hit each other like normal people.” Isala laughed in surprise and amusement, Cole was beside her but offered no words━he knew she did not need him at that time. Varric joined them as Solas brought up the rear, keeping some distance between himself and the rest of the group, an act that amused Isala. 

“I haven’t got the slightest clue what Scholar just said, but I do know you just kicked poor Chuckles’ ass.” She laughed again, paying no heed to the man’s presence just behind them, who, to her surprise, spoke up, his tone light, but sincere. 

“I am humbled by this experience.” Cassandra snorted while Varric raised an eyebrow in bemusement. Isala looked over her shoulder slightly to gauge Solas’ mood and saw━she didn’t know what. Something in his gaze was new; a sort of burning in their depths now, something like heat seemed to have pushed away the distant consideration she had felt in his eyes before. Perhaps it was curiosity? 

She hoped it was not anger; Isala wanted nothing less than to alienate such an intriguing and skilled companion. That didn’t mean she would be silent while he insulted her and their people, however, nor when he showed prejudice. He might be intelligent and knowledgeable, but that did not make him infallible or all-knowing, just as her knowledge and perspective did not make her so. Isala turned her head to face forward again. This would require more, it seemed. 

They settled by a lake to rest, Solas hanging back from the group, as though to continue giving her distance. Whether it was out of consideration, chagrin, or something else, Isala could not tell. She still felt the lingering frustration of their confrontation, but knew nothing could be done about it in that moment. She only hoped he did not hold a grudge, and that the awkwardness would pass soon. 

As though sensing this, Varric made a passing comment to which Cassandra scoffed and rebutted him, turning to Isala and asking her questions, the tension broken. She smiled wryly at the warrior’s curiosity; for all her hard-headedness and one-track mind the Seeker was inquisitive. Isala only wished she would indulge that side of herself more than the indoctrinated and closed-minded side that deemed her peoples’ beliefs incomprehensible and foolish. 

She did not know where she stood with the warrior; every interaction seemed to be different. Still, Isala answered her with no animosity, willing to reward a curious mind. Cole flitted to her side, flowers in hand as the Seeker considered Isala’s answer. Compassion always knew when the old pain inside her welled up, inflamed by the prodding of well-intentioned companions, or those that poked and prodded and spoke on that which they did not understand..

They settled in to rest and fill their waterskins, spreading out to do their individual tasks and unwind. Isala sat in the sun-warmed grass, Cassandra on a fallen tree a few feet away, and Varric leaned back against a rock formation as Solas sat under a tree near the small lake. Varric was telling Solas a story, from what she could hear, it sounded like it involved his chest hair. Better that than to continue to prod the tension, still fresh. Isala smiled at Cole offering up the flowers and took them with thanks, offering to show him how to weave a crown. His eyes lit up at the prospect before darkening; someone else’s pain spilling from his lips.

“A crown, but without the burden, the weight, he wanted to marry him but a knife-ear could never be his husband, cold knees in front of a warm fireplace as he remembers the way he laughed, how his eyes closed, hair swayed, his wife in the bedroom behind him his crown heavy beside him.” Isala offered him a sad smile, laying her hand on his to draw his mind back to the present. He was a human, and yet not. A spirit of untold time melded with the body of someone so young...his eyes met hers, big and blue.

“His pain is of the past, though it lingers and the lessons remain. The burdens of power are a paradox. It is about appearances and comfort, not kindness or understanding. If the world was more generous with flower crowns perhaps he could have been happy.” Cole nodded solemnly, squeezing her fingers before springing up to gather more flowers. Isala watched his shift from somber and pain stricken one minute to open and attentive the next; happy to be present, to be helping. She could not predict these changes in him no more than she could predict the strength of the tide or the intensity of the sun. She could only move with the current.

Seeming to sense Isala’s mind wandering, Varric made a wisecrack about Cassandra, prompting a surprised laugh out of the elf, and a patented disgusted scoff from the Seeker. Solas looked on, the corners of his lips turned upward but his eyes calm and secretive, as ambiguous as the lake beside the party. 

The elven man’s certainty in his preconceptions and his borderline elitism still frustrated Isala to a certain degree, but she respected him. His knowledge and abilities were admirable, and his perspectives and experiences fascinated her. But his attitude and ignorance of his own biases meant Isala ignored the odd draw she felt towards him. She was curious, and he seemed to be as well. If he would only listen without thinking he already knew the right answers she felt they could be friends. Sometimes it seemed Solas knew more than he said and seemed to think himself superior for it. And yet he was not purely arrogant, nor even arrogant in the way she usually saw pride presented and _yet_...

In their conversations and debates until then; Isala could clearly see he had much knowledge and empathy, but seemed so certain that he was right he could not, or would not, see how he was wrong. She wondered what made him feel the need to disparage others and insist himself the foremost expert. She wished he would put aside that narrow minded assumption and have an open dialogue. Somehow it felt as though everything would be changed if he would.

Cole returned, the flowers and herbs bundled in his arms elicited another smile from Isala as she settled in and began showing Cole how to weave with the plants. As they did so, Cassandra resumed her questions to Isala, pausing her blade from its friction against a whetstone, voice hesitant.

“I realized I do not actually know much about you, would you tell me about yourself?” 

Varric rolled his eyes, tone playful. “Be careful Scholar, she’s good at interrogating people. Next thing you know she’ll have knocked you upside the head and chained you to a chair so she can imprison you for weeks and interrogate you slowly.” Cassandra made an indignant sound, waving the hand with the whetstone defensively.

“I would do no such thing!” The dwarf raised his brows at her disgruntlement, settling back against the stone as he carefully examined his nails.

“Exactly what you did to me.” Cassandra sputtered,

“ _I_ did not knock you upside the head, and you were not chained!” Short sandy brown hair swayed as he mockingly checked himself.

“That’s right, you chained _her_ up, and I was only confined to a chair in a locked room guarded by an army of Seekers. You show remarkable restraint.” Muttering under her breath, Cassandra turned to Isala, who kept her eyes trained carefully down, the corners of her lips curved upward. The Seeker took notice and gave an indignant cry.

“This _amuses_ you, Lavellan?” Isala couldn’t help but smile, eyes turning to Varric who grinned lazily at her, perhaps expecting comradery. But she felt a bit mischievous instead. As much as she liked Varric, the brazen storyteller was too comfortable in his role as taunter, perhaps it would do good for him to be shaken up as well.

“I never would have guessed Varric wanted so badly to reminisce over our shared bondage in your care.” The dwarf started a bit at her phrasing. “Tell me, Varric, do you enjoy reliving how you were confined to a small space with a warrior woman? It sounds like a scene from one of your books.” Varric threw up his hands in surrender, chuckling in defeat as Cassandra opened her mouth half in amused disbelief, half in chagrined indignance. Solas’ quietly surprised chuckle echoed the dwarf’s, who almost appeared to be blushing.

“I give up, I give up! My ladies?” The dwarf gestured dramatically for them to continue their talk. Cassandra smiled smugly as she turned her focus back to Isala, who placed a finished crown on Cole’s head, his hat on the ground between them, holding the rest of the plants. He smiled quietly at his trophy, leaning over carefully to look at his reflection in the lake.

“What would you like to know? I’m sure you could get a thorough report from Leliana, have you not?” Cassandra shifted uncomfortably but shook her head.

“I…suppose I could. I would be able to ask Leliana; she has collected a frightening amount of information on you. But I feel it would be better to hear it from you.” Isala smiled at her, which seemed to make Cassandra relax, as though she had expected to be cajoled. 

“I would also prefer that, although our beginning was…” She recalled the heavy weight of manacles on her wrist, the echoes of that old pain—her thoughts must have shown in her eyes because Cassandra seemed concerned. Isala focused again. “...unusual, you did not act completely without cause, and we now know that we are on the same side. I would like to be on good terms with you, if you would allow it.” 

Cassandra seemed genuinely shocked by the prospect, although not unpleasantly. Isala had been angry and frightened by what the Seeker had done, but understood, even if she could not condone, the woman’s actions in retrospect. After getting to know the warrior, Isala could not say she had forgiven her, nor that she could fully understand the Seeker. But it was not, after all, the worst experience Isala had had. Despite the woman’s prejudiced and narrow minded ideas on religion, justice, and order, she seemed to have good intentions and acknowledged some flaws in the systems and institutions she venerated, if not all. That was something, at least.

“I…yes, I er,” Varric unsuccessfully stifled a laugh at Cassandra’s stuttering. The Seeker directed her steely glare his way and finished her sentence after a deep breath. “I…would like that.” Isala smiled softly, meeting the warrior’s gaze steadily.

“Where would you like me to begin?” Cassandra pondered this, before asking her question.

“I’m…not sure. Where are you from? You are Dalish, are you not?” Isala raised her eyebrows at this, Ghilan’nain’s golden vallaslin shifting with the movement. Cassandra’s cheeks reddened a bit as Varric sighed amusedly. Solas seemed intent on the book he held, lifting a hand to turn the pages absentmindedly.

“Yes, I am indeed Dalish. My clan tends not to stay in one place too long, but we primarily roam the Free Marches.” Cassandra’s head cocked at this.

“Oh? I didn’t think your people roamed that far north, clearly I’m mistaken.” Isala shrugged, eyes focused on the stems she was weaving, hands steady even as her throat tightened, missing her clan.

“The Dalish travel almost anywhere, but tend to avoid areas too close to large settlements, Tevinter, or places with a strong military or Chantry force. In our case, as long as there is not a great threat of violence or capture in the regions, our clan tends to have more interest in human affairs, so we travel extensively.” She did not feel the need to specify that their path usually followed the Minanter river and along the Free Marches coast. She may trust her companions and the inner circle, but that did not mean they needed to know everything. Something about telling where her clan could be found felt too vulnerable for Isala, so she fell silent. Besides, Leliana would likely know anyway, how else could they have contacted Clan Lavellan initially. Cassandra seemed interested to hear this information, though her lips pursed at the mention of the Chantry as a threat. Varric chimed in before the warrior could say anything though, his expression curious.

“Ever been to Kirkwall, Scholar? Or Sundermount? Had any run-ins with Clan Sabrae?” Isala brightened at the mention of the clan.

“I have not been to Kirkwall, but I _have_ met Clan Sabrae before, my friend is a member. She spoke of you, if I recall correctly, but never did so in detail. We mostly spoke of…other things.” Varric seemed genuinely surprised by this, sitting up slightly.

“Oh? Who’s this friend?” Isala gave him Merrill’s name and it seemed the dwarf’s eyes might fall out of his skull.

“You’re _Daisy’s_ friend?!” Cassandra seemed both annoyed and amused by his reaction.

“I think this is the first time I have seen you show so much emotion.” She turned to bear her teeth in a grin at Isala. “It’s nice to see him squirm.” Varric seemed to collect himself, leaning back and taking a deep breath.

“The world is too damn small. Scholar, don’t think you’re getting out of this, _I’ll_ be interrogating _you_ later.” He grinned at her, hundreds of questions behind his amber eyes, and Isala smiled back.

“As long as you don’t employ Cassandra’s methods.” He snorted as the Seeker huffed slightly. Isala glanced up from her weaving of green stems and thin leaves; Cole spoke solemnly with an unseen entity a few feet away, and Solas’ eyes were trained on the lake, though his book still lay open in his hands. Cassandra’s voice drew her attention back, asking another question.

“Back to the matter of your origin, I’m told your clan is still traveling in the North, do you intend to go back?” Isala paused at the question, and Cole’s head swiveled towards her, flower crown lopsided. He disappeared from his position and materialized in front of Isala, causing Cassandra to yelp, and Solas’ eyes to break from the water’s surface. Compassion leaned in to whisper to Isala, voice quiet enough their companions could not overhear. 

“Old pains, old scars, still tender and you—wanting, waiting, wishing, then searching, seeking, studying, speaking with spirits, desperate for old knowledge, old truths, new futures, freedom from the festering fiendishness of frightened family. But they are yours, and you are theirs. And you are _here_ now. I am with you.” Isala’s throat tightened, then loosed, her heartbeat slowing from its sped up pace, body settling in response to Cole’s words and the steadiness of his gaze, his cold hand on hers. The memories could be overwhelming at times, never strong enough to drown out the homesickness and longing, but always enough to bring back the pain and the fear.

“ _Fenor I tundra falon. Ma serannas. Ame amahn_ .” The two both relaxed, and Cole began to weave a crown of his own out of the flowers piled in his hat. Isala could feel Solas’ gaze. Even if he had not heard everything Cole had said, she felt certain he had heard her words. Although she felt surprisingly content with the new friendships she had made, she did not want anyone to know about her past. Not when she had tried so hard to hide it from her own clan, though it was eventually discovered. She especially did not want to be beholden to the mysterious man who seemed to hold such judgments for his own people, no matter the empathy he showed. This was _her_ shame. She did not want it witnessed.

Cassandra and Varric watched, obvious confusion on their faces. Isala smiled at them and handed a finished crown to the Seeker who looked surprised and embarrassed but sputtered her thanks. The dwarf seemed both amused and soothed by this interaction and returned to lounging and listening. Solas’ unreadable gaze turned back to the pages of his book, but his head almost seemed to be tilted towards them, as though to listen, dark brown hair swaying in the gentle breeze.

Isala gathered up more materials to continue weaving as she answered Cassandra, her voice steady, heartbeat calm.“To answer your question, for years even before the events at the Conclave, I was not traveling with my clan. I was researching independently, and visited them every few months or so. Wherever I am is enough for me, though my home will always be with them. I will likely not return permanently unless I become Keeper, otherwise I will continue my research and visit when I am needed.” Cassandra again looked surprised by this knowledge.

“Research? I thought most Dalish preferred to travel in groups and associate with one another. Why were you traveling alone?” Isala shook her head faintly, her fingers tracing the pattern she wove, smoothing out the strands.

“The Dalish are as varied as any other group of people, we are not all the same, though it is true we hold community and relations dear. As for me, I had…circumstances. I love my clan, as they do me, but I left to pursue the study of Elven history and language, in the hopes of learning more about our lost history and culture. I am also a dreamer, so it was easier in some ways for me to be separate from…certain environments being with the clan meant for me.” Solas’ eyes shot up from the book he had been reading.

“You are a dreamer?” Isala jumped at the sound of his voice. She turned slightly to look at him: the tall man’s eyes were narrowed slightly, as though trying to discern whether she was lying. She felt irritation building once again, but resigned herself. He was so sure he was always right; it was not a good attribute for anyone to have, even if they _were_ often proven correct. But she would try not to make assumptions about him, as that was a large part of what she took issue with concerning _him_ . That trait of his was the largest obstacle to her giving into the curiosity she had about him and his knowledge, but Isala could not _truly_ speak with him if he did not acknowledge her as his equal, or recognize his own biases. 

This was not the place for such a debate, however. Isala pushed her discontent from her mind and answered him. “Yes.” Before Solas could continue, his lips parting as though to say something, Cassandra interjected.

“So _that_ is why you are so effective at sensing demons and...” a pause slightly tinged with distaste, “communing with spirits. Is that also why you seem so drained after battles?” Isala felt a surge of appreciation for the Seeker when she saw the genuine concern in the woman’s eyes. The warrior’s expression of care towards Isala alleviated her annoyance at Cassandra’s attitude towards spirits and she smiled in response.

“Yes. Although the battles are tiring enough by themselves.” Cassandra laughed softly in agreement, and then looked down. 

“I am sorry I never thought to ask, I simply assumed…” She trailed off and shook her head. “I will see if any of Leliana’s contacts possesses knowledge about treatment, or are aware of some particular potions or herbs that will help.” Isala gave her thanks and returned to weaving. 

“As for what you said about home being where you are, that is how I feel as well, after years of tending to the Divine...” For a while the conversation veered towards Cassandra, and Isala appreciated the reprieve from attention. Soon Varric cut in with an amusing tangent, and the original conversation was over entirely. 

Isala kept her eyes on the intricate woven charm she had been working on, but could sense violet-blue eyes aimed towards her. She did not meet them. Let Solas approach her if he wished to, _she_ would not take the first step after she had tried to do so so many times before. Isala raised her gaze and beckoned to Cole as their human and dwarf companions bickered about something off-topic. The boy flitted in front of Isala, his quiet and attentive posture prompting her to smile; validated by the familiarity of him that was not mortal. She tied the woven grass ornament to a buckle on his armor. 

“A charm,” she said. “It’s supposed to keep the wearer safe and ward off danger.” Cole met her eyes solemnly, pale blue gazing into deep ochre. 

“The superstitions don’t have to hurt you. You’ve woven, wielded, worked them into something good, something helpful. They are not your pain. And neither are you.” Before Isala could respond she realized Solas had picked himself up from where he had been resting and was standing above her, arms behind his back gazing down at her and Cole. 

“I apologize for interrupting, but I would like to speak with you.” Cole materialized away, and the two watched as he reappeared on the other side of the lake, gazing again into the depths as though something within stared back. Solas turned to look at Isala again, regarding her with curiosity and doubt. 

“I am curious about what you said of yourself earlier; you believe you are a dreamer?” The man’s tone was soft but the way he posed the question irked Isala. She _believed_ she was a dreamer? Why was it in doubt for him? 

“I have had...unique experiences and abilities since I was a child. My Keeper and the Keepers and elders of various other clans confirmed at an _Arlathvhen_ decades ago that I am a _Somniari_ . _Erelan._ ” Isala could feel some type of challenge on Solas’ lips, his eyes slightly narrowed, as though in doubt. She interceded before he could bring the words to bear. “You may test me, if you wish. I have no motivation to lie about this. If it would please you, or soothe your ego, by all means.” 

“My ego? I am not sure I understand what you mean.” Isala could sense a faint underlying tone of reproach and defensiveness and met his gaze. It would seem it _was_ time after all.

“You are a man of great knowledge and ability, _eolasal'len_ , that is apparent and not in question. However, I have noticed a pattern in my conversations with you and my observations of you.” His stance was relaxed but he shifted and his eyebrows raised, interest piqued. 

“Oh? And what is that.” She stood then, moving slowly and keeping her voice and tone steady so as not to come off as hostile. 

“For all the knowledge you possess and that which you still seek, you seem resentful of other ways of knowing, other modes of thought or feeling. You claim to know the way and yet offer no guidance. You call others who you deem different base and even savage, and yet that very attitude proves your own hubris. You claim free-mindedness and yet you portray intolerance. You are what you claim you cannot be, and what you claim others must not become. I do not know what has occurred in your time to make you feel the way, but I would ask you to be more open. _Solas din ga eolasal_ _.”_

The Elven man stood there for a moment, unmoving, his hands linked behind his back, armor shining in the sunlight that filtered through the leaves, the wool of his clothing fluttered slightly as a breeze swept through the glen. He stared down at Isala where she stood in front of him, her gaze steady and non-accusatory. How odd to be cautioned by one that so confused him. Her white hair braided into a neat plait swayed in the breeze, her gold chain mail and leather armor gleamed in the faint light that shone through the foliage. Her slanted, golden eyes stared into him, sincere and open, Ghilan’nain’s arches above them as though to mock him. Everything about her was strange and yet familiar...

As Solas opened his mouth to speak, Cassandra called out to interrupt again, prompting the party to continue on their journey. He tucked away his questions and decided to continue his observations of Isala, watching out of the corner of his eyes as she gathered her things and retrieved her staff. He had already been intrigued, and knew he needed to get even closer to her if he wanted to be able to observe the mark optimally, but beyond his self-preservation and curiosity, her attitude and apparent knowledge and abilities would warrant deeper interactions. 

Solas could see that she had been keeping her distance from him--circling him like a cautious halla, he had thought--but now he felt she had encircled him like a snake, or cornered him like a wolf. His eyes lingered on hers for a moment, for once his steady stream of thoughts quieted before he snapped himself out of an emotional space not meant for him. Isala nodded to him, and their interaction ended, the party packing up in order to move on. Cole stood behind Solas, his voice soft. 

“Eyes liquid golden pools reflecting that which is seen and not seen. Hair that ripples like the moon, the scent of jasmine and honey mixed with old paper and old pain, words that cut deeper to what lies beneath, eyes that see what is rather than what was. There is _more_ to her, _she_ is _more_.” Solas felt something in his chest move but all he said was:

“Yes.” 

∞ ∞ ∞

The afternoon was melting away, winding down into evening as the sun gradually lowered, its glow growing more intense. Back in Skyhold, Isala stretched in her chambers, attempting to roll out the stiffness in her shoulders and back. Their excursion to the Emerald Graves was over, at least for the rest of the week, and her duties of the day were finished. She donned her fur cover and grabbed a pen and some research notes, ready to finally unwind. When she descended the stairs from her rooms to the door that led to the lower balcony, Isala could feel her body relax with each step. This space felt almost separate from the rest of the fortress; a private garden she had planted and cultivated by herself, taking the empty space of the platform beneath the balcony of her chambers. It was hers; a semblance of peace and privacy that didn’t mean she had to be shut inside.

Isala stepped out into the open and breathed in the scent of fresh plantlife mixed with the cold mountain air and the sharp underlying scent of snow. She closed her eyes and sighed, enjoying the muted warmth of this space produced by both magic and the natural heat of life from the plants. In the center of the wide terrace stood a large willow, its thick branches boughed to spread out over the space, thick trunk extending upwards so that it cloaked the entire garden with its leaves, encapsulating the balcony. The willow’s torso held various carved niches Isala had shaped to store items, and the ground was blanketed with moss and stray roots and plants. It was peaceful and alive. Familiar.

This alcove was as close to an open and yet private space as Isala could get within the fortress; outside but apart from the battlements. Beyond the privacy and comfort it afforded her, she had planted several useful plants, both medicinal and other types of herbs, that she could utilize separately from the Skyhold nursery. That, in addition to the seeds she had sown for different flowers, made it much easier for her to create and brew teas as she enjoyed doing, as well as salves and poultices whose recipes were unique to Clan Lavellan. 

She walked around the willow, admiring the way the vines and herbs had grown to further cradle the space; flowers strewn throughout, blossoms pointing upwards towards the light that filtered through the willow’s foliage. Isala stopped at the carved table against the tall stone railing of the terrace, one of her looms still propped against it, the kettle and cups waiting there for her, water cold in its vessel beside them. She made a mental note to take the loom up with her when she returned inside and placed her pen and papers on the table beside the kettle, waving her now burdenless hands absentmindedly to light the fire beneath the water and the candles on the altar behind her, to which she now turned. 

Isala smiled and knelt before the mini pantheon she had created in the willow’s trunk, silken wood carved into figures that resembled the mosaics of the Creators, all standing equal to one another with a personalized offering on the platforms beneath each of their feet. She offered a silent prayer to them and knelt there for a moment, ruminating, before standing again and turning to the table where the water now boiled. She extinguished the flame with a wave of her fingers and opened a drawer in the carved wood of the table, pulling out a blend of dried leaves and petals and placing them in the kettle before pouring water over the contents. Isala watched the petals bloom outwards as they rehydrated, the water dyed green as the tea brewed. The process was calming, and the rich scent of the blend mixed with the garden was intoxicating, sinking her further into calm. 

When the tea was ready she poured a cup, luxuriating in the fragrant steam caressing her face and the heat against her hands. _Solace, finally_. She retrieved her research notes and pen, balancing the cup carefully in her other arm as she passed the flowers; dawn lotus, camas, jasmine, honeysuckle, lavender, yarrow...Isala smiled as their leaves tickled her ankles, bare feet warm despite the cold thanks to the vines, roots, and moss that blanketed the stone. She levitated the cup, placing it in one of the niches in the willow’s thicker branches, and began to ascend, climbing the trunk with ease, enjoying the feeling of moving upward. Isala settled in the curve of the natural alcove in the trunk’s crown where the branches extended outwards, setting her notes against a board she kept there so she could continue and review as she enjoyed her tea. Isala sighed with contentment, considering her findings as she nestled into her furs and the muted heat of the willow’s bark, grateful to be alone and immerse herself in research at last.

Most people knew that when Isala went to this space they should not intrude; it was one she had cultivated for herself, and private, even if it was technically speaking not part of her quarters. Everyone in Skyhold respected the unspoken rule; even Sera didn’t venture into Isala’s garden, out of equal parts respect and “ew weird magic greens.” Cole came to visit once in a while; he could tell when she was open for company, but it was rare. Spending time in her garden was for her alone, only interrupted by emergencies or pre-determined visits. At that time, however, as Isala basked in the warmth of living wood and the soft rustle of leaves, her eyes riveted to a page on magical transmutations, a familiar but unexpected voice called out to her. 

“Inquisitor? Might I have some of your time?” Isala stiffened first at the title, then the source of the voice. She sighed, an exhalation of a different nature. She had been expecting him but nonetheless found herself almost feeling nervous. Solas had seemed to be observing her ever since she had given him advice, and had continued to do so from a distance after their second more climactic interaction earlier that day when she had admonished him for his elitism towards the Dalish. She hoped his presence in her sanctum did not bode poorly for their relationship. Isala did, after all, respect Solas and feel great curiosity towards him, but she would not tolerate disrespect or undue prejudice towards their people.

Placing her cup back into a niche in one of the branches, Isala peered down at where a tall figure stood, relaxed but composed near the foot of her tree, face angled down. The elven man seemed to be observing what she had planted while he waited for her response, the fur he wore across his chest and long dark hair swaying slightly as a breeze blew through the garden. Deep violet eyes turned to look up at her and she tilted her head curiously, surprised at the leap in her chest as their eyes met. Isala shifted slightly, putting her pen down and moving from her sitting position to stand, bare feet anchored comfortably against the tree. She leaned over slightly to get a better view of Solas’ expression and called out to him, voice soft. 

“Are you here to talk?” A small chuckle answered her as his lips curved up in a slight smile, cocking his head.

“Why else would I intrude upon your privacy?” _To argue, or to lecture_. But she knew better. She considered for a moment, then spoke again. 

“Wait a moment, I’ll come down.” Solas nodded, stepping back slightly and waiting patiently, his eyes carefully trained on Isala as she descended the tree, empty tea cup in one hand, notes in the other, walking down the trunk as easily as if it were marble stairs.

When she hopped down on the mossy ground he spoke again, tone gentle. “I apologize for the encroachment; I wished to speak to you alone but could not find you. The Spymaster said you were in your gardens, I knocked but heard no response. It would seem I startled you, my apologies.” She quirked a brow at him as she walked around the tree, gesturing with a flick of a finger for Solas to follow her. 

“It’s not a space I readily share, but it _is_ one of the few places in Skyhold that affords as close to real privacy as one can have.” her lips curved in a small smile. “Even Leliana leaves it be.” A chuckle from behind her, as though Solas conceded her point. “So, if you wish to speak, this would be the most discreet place to do so.” She gestured for him to sit in one of the chairs by the carved table. He hesitated, but did so, shifting to get comfortable, his posture straight and poised...so different from the occasional slouch he took on. _Curious_. Isala reheated the teapot and glanced at Solas, gaze steady. “Tea?” He raised an eyebrow at her, appearing amused. 

“I...do not care for tea.” She smiled, enjoying the slight apprehension in his eyes at the sight of the teapot. _How amusing, it’s only herbs_. She decided to prod him, smiling amicably and getting out another cup. 

“You haven’t tried one of my blends. Don’t worry, this one will not prevent you from sleeping. It’s a mixture of soothing and centering herbs, not energizing.” She poured him a cup and refilled her own, watching as he eyed the ceramic with suspicion. Isala couldn’t resist a laugh; his reaction was so like that of a child fearing the taste of something new. “I promise it’s not bitter. Try it.”

He smiled politely, raising the cup to his lips and taking a sip, the slight furrow between his brows disappearing as he eyed the liquid, a look of mild surprise on his face as he considered it.

Isala stifled her laughter this time, watching him. “See? Not so bad. Trying and learning new things can be a good experience.” She let the line hang in the air, the subtext clear. They remained in the moment for a time, Solas sitting in the chair savoring the tea, Isala organizing her notes on the table, waiting for him to say what he had come to say.

Finally his posture shifted as he settled into a more relaxed position, his gaze moving from the tea cup to the willow tree, and then to the pantheon carved into the trunk. When he looked at the carved Creators, something in his face shifted; his expression changing into an emotion she could not decipher. “I see you have made this place your own. It is impressive to see, especially in this climate.” He paused, as though considering his words carefully. “I must admit, I am surprised to see you have set up a place of worship, let alone one that includes Fen’harel, particularly on equal terms with the rest of the pantheon.” Isala moved away from the table, gathering her furs closer around her and extending a hand to brush against the carved wood of the creators, feeling the faint warmth from the evening sun and candlelight. _Familiar_.

“It is as you said, I have made it mine, cultivated it. It is as close to home as I can be at this time.” She looked up from the shrine, her smile soft but playful. “It must be difficult for you to make admissions _ga’eolasalen._ ” Solas surprised her by laughing aloud, leaning back slightly as his eyes glittered with amusement and something else she could not place.  
“If I were to admit that is true what else would you say about me?” 

“That you are redeemable, I suppose.” He laughed again, but this time it had an edge to it, something making the sound raw, a gleam in his eyes almost like hope, clouded by guilt. Before the emotions registered with her she had already spoken again, feeling the need to explain. “Our clan venerates all of the Creators, and I take guidance and strength from their teachings. The Dread Wolf is not solely a purveyor of harm, just as the other Creators are not solely purveyors of aid. They, like most things, contain and enact both good and bad. Few things are so easily split into such dualistic categories. Fen’harel deceived. Andruil forced. Mythal is both justice and vengeance. Things are not so simple, but it’s their complexity that almost makes it straightforward.” She smiled quietly, chiding herself. “But I’m speaking in riddles. I doubt you came to discuss the beliefs of myself and my clan, let alone those of the Dalish in general.” It was a test. He knew it.

Solas shook his head slowly, his gaze intent on Isala as she turned back to face him, white hair fanned out on the furs wrapped around her, cheeks flushed as the evening began to settle in and the mountain air cooled further. “I find I appreciate your perspective, Inquisitor. It is certainly refreshing to debate with one so eloquent, especially one who possesses surprising familiarity with the Elven language.” Isala knew he was alluding to their past confrontations but kept her eyes shuttered, simply watching him until he continued. 

“I have thought about what you said. I...apologize. In my interactions with the Dalish before they have always wished to assert their superiority but have accompanied it with suspicion, making the sharing of knowledge or debate...difficult.” Isala waited for a moment, making sure he had finished speaking before answering him.

“You say that but you have done what you claim the Dalish have: you expect the Dalish to simply listen and agree with what you tell them but scoff at the idea of reciprocating the very treatment which you seek. And I would remind you that we Dalish are not all the same, let alone as ignorant or vicious as you paint us. My clan speaks almost solely in Elvish. Common is my second language. You call me eloquent but any in my clan, and many Elvhen throughout Thedas could do just as well if not better than I.” She stared into his eyes, willing him to understand. “I am not an exception Solas. I am unique, yes, as are all people. But I am a product and a member of _my_ people. _Our_ people. You would do well to recognize and unlearn the biases you hold about your own, and the prejudices you hold about other races. _The world is one, but it is not one thing_.” 

Isala spoke the last words in Elvish. Her eyes had not moved from Solas’ face as she had spoken, intent on ensuring he listened and took what she said to heart. She knew he cared; she just hoped he would _listen_. He paused for a moment, his lips slightly quirked as he glanced down at his interlaced fingers before standing, his arms moving behind his back, shoulders squaring as he walked over to Isala, standing across from her in front of the carved shrine, his gaze sincere. 

“I had...forgotten.” 

“Forgotten what?” 

“What it is like to be held accountable, to converse with someone on an open intellectual level. On equal terms.” Isala raised her eyebrows at him.

“I would suggest you not say that to anyone else, unless you want to get punched by Cassandra.” Solas laughed again, a deep pleasant sound that she found oddly comforting, as though she wanted to sink into it, like soft furs on a winter morning....Isala tilted her head at the feeling, confused. Solas continued, his voice light with amusement.

“Quite right, I would like to avoid any physical altercations with our companions, particularly the Seeker.” Isala smiled and he continued, violent-blue eyes resting on her again, gaze warm. “Still, I accept what you have said. I spoke out of ignorance. I am...” He hesitated, then continued. “Less familiar than I had thought myself. I should remember I am not an authority on these things. Though I suppose few are. I appreciate your keeping me accountable, Inquisitor. Our interactions, though few, have been...stimulating.”

She laughed at that, cheeks flushing as his smile changed slightly, his chin angling downward as he looked at her from under his brows, eyes intent as though still observing her. 

“That is certainly one word for it! What is it that stimulates you so? Are you a glutton for punishment?” Now his smile turned into what was almost a grin, his eyes sparkling with something suspiciously like mischief. 

“You train your will to control magic and withstand possession. There is something familiar about your magic, but that is not all there is of you. The grace with which you move is an enjoyable side benefit and your indomitable focus is impressive. I find these things stimulating, as much as the debate. As would anyone, I would think.” 

Her eyebrows arched higher at his comments, the warmth in her cheeks seeming to surge even as the cold air stung her skin. “You are suggesting I’m graceful?” 

“I am declaring it. It was not a subject for debate.” She laughed softly, looking down instinctively as she shifted slightly, lashes fluttering, pulling her furs tighter around her, closer to her skin, feeling equal parts too warm and too cold.

“I see...Indomitable focus?”

“Presumably. I have yet to see it dominated. I imagine that the sight would be...fascinating.” Isala’s throat tightened, something in her chest felt too light and she resisted the urge to press a hand to her collarbone, unsure whether she shivered from the cold or at his words and the way his voice deepened and quieted as he spoke. 

Solas’ gaze remained on Isala, gauging her reaction as something slightly different than amusement flitting through his eyes. She said nothing, only made a soft humming sound in the back of her throat in response, her eyebrows still arched quizzically, lips curved upward. She turned from where they stood, bodies only a few inches apart, and walked back to the table, reheating the tea again and once more pouring them each a cup.

“To bring focus back to our original subject, Inquisitor,” Isala leaned back against the table as Solas walked up beside her as he spoke. She watched him retrieve his tea cup and take a sip, amused at how he no longer hesitated to drink it. She adjusted her posture to resume their conversation though the tension still thrummed in the air between them. 

“Before you continue, I’d ask that you not refer to me as Inquisitor, if at all possible. It is a title I bear, and it is not my name.” Solas hesitated, as though reprimanding himself internally, gaze dropping for a moment before meeting hers’ again. 

“Isala.” Something stirred inside her. She felt... _something_ . She wasn’t sure what. _Curious..._

He continued. ”You are Dalish and yet you possess knowledge and an acceptance of what others deem impossible or deviant that I have not encountered in⎼⎼” he paused, as though catching himself. “In quite some time.” Isala offered a wry smile. 

“I may not be as experienced as you or a Keeper, Solas, but I have seen and felt more than enough to know neither I, nor one person, nor even history holds all the answers.” She stopped for a moment, eyes trained on the willow’s leaves as they swayed in the evening breeze, the last strained light of the sunset filtering through the foliage and lighting the shrine with an intense glow. 

“I have a deep understanding of the extremes of superstitions and intolerance, as well as the diversity and strength of communities. I would never presume to define others nor the nuances of the world, I only seek to learn about them and share them with others.” Solas shifted as he put down his cup and once again put his hands behind his back, eyes intent on her, his voice soft.

“That is what I admire about you. If you are willing, I would like to converse with you more.” Isala smiled.

“I am more than willing, as long as _you_ are willing to reciprocate.” Solas smiled.

“We are in agreement.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I promise, after this, the romance begins in earnest lol
> 
> Elvish featured in text:  
> Da’len banal las halamshir var Elvhen. Banal’athim—ma ane felas’len—tel’then. (the Dalish do nothing to further the people. No humility—they are slow children—not awake)  
> Venavis. Halam sahlin. Tel’dirthera emma el’era. Elvhen—nae—Da’len elvarel dirthara (Stop. This ends now. Do not tell me our story. The people—no—the Dalish try to seek the truth)  
> Ma dhrua mar on’el? Es ghi’la banal, athlanal Dalish delavir, tel’then. Ahn or ma? Telir Solas; banal sul’amelan—erathe virelan, ehn nuvi'sulena theneras. Ma banal las halamshir var vhen. (You think you are better? Teaching nothing, calling the Dalish foolish, ignorant. What of you? Only Prideful; no teacher—a sleepwalker, who thinks he is awake. You do nothing to further our people.)  
> Fenor I tundra falon. Ma serannas. Ame amahn (A precious and kind friend. Thank you. I am here.)  
> Somniari/Erelan (Dreamer)  
> Eolasal'len (Knowing One or Wise One"  
> Solas din ga eolasal (Pride is not all knowing)  
> Ga’eolasalen (All-knowing one; said facetiously)


	8. CHAPTER VIII: Dera, Ea'derem

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Isala and Solas' relationship has changed, the pair becoming closer having acknowledged one another as equals. On an excursion to do research on the veil, various unforeseen events lead to Isala and Solas having to stay at an inn, in one room, in one bed. Things are shifting between the pair, who knows where things will lead...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dera, Ea’derem (To Touch, To Be Touched)
> 
> I wrote about 35 pages in almost 3 days! Getting caught up in your emotions does wonders for writing. We're in it now folks.  
> Again there's a lot of Elvish in this chapter so I recommend having the end notes open in another window as you read! And yes there are puns in Elvish, I'm sorry. Or am I?
> 
> \- Content warning for references to fetishization of elves and slight nsfw in the chapter

“ _Ver’eth, inana mar shosaan._ ” Solas steadied Isala from behind as she slipped on the damp earth, still slick from the rain that had fallen the night before. Isala thanked him, bracing herself on an arm he offered her as she stepped gingerly over some water-bright roots. They were in a forest several miles from Vel Chevin between the city and the Temple of Dirthamen they had explored only weeks ago. Isala had been both awestruck and distressed by what they had discovered there; the madness and desperation of Dirthamen’s followers and the corruption and warping of his teachings that had led so many astray in search of power and knowledge no matter the cost. That was not the Dirthamen she knew, nor the one her clan nor likely any of the Dalish venerated. 

Stepping foot in the temple had been an incredible experience; the feeling of walking on holy ground and being able to research and decipher the mosaics, carvings, and various scrolls after the premises had been cleared of demons and enemies had been intoxicating. She didn’t mind the spirits that remained, enjoying the sight of wisps lingering in front of the altars or floating dreamily across the waters of the inner sanctum. They seemed to like it there. But even after restoring peace within the temple, Isala still felt an odd sensation, like a rippling in the veil; its presence feeling thin, like gossamer against her skin. She passed her findings on to her clan so they could share it with other Dalish in turn, but sensed that whatever she felt in the veil warranted further investigation.

Isala’s request to the advisors that she be allowed to do research in the area had been accepted, on the condition she not go alone. Solas had invited himself along before she could even ask; his packs ready and armor donned when she entered the rotunda to ask if he wanted to accompany her. He seemed pleased that she had sought him out, and Isala found she wasn’t irked at all over his assumption, as she might have been in the past. 

In the months that had followed their conversation in her gardens she had found speaking with Solas not only easier, but enjoyable, to the point she sought him out, and any time he came to find her she smiled as instinctively as she breathed. The two of them could debate for hours, having conversations so animated and excited it left them out of breath. The routines they had fallen into together of collaborating on research and conducting experiments together, as well as the conversations now felt as natural and familiar as the routines Isala had performed within her clan. But somehow it was different. Something about _him_ was different. But she liked it.

Sera and Cole accompanied them as well, but the pair had remained in Val Chevin. The archer’s quest was to carry out tasks in the city both out of respect for her discomfort with the magic that would be involved as well as Isala and Solas’ mutual aversion to hearing the more macabre things Sera sometimes had to say about ancient elves. Cole stayed as well to keep an eye on things, Sera included; he could watch out for her. Sera was less than happy she was “saddled with the weirdo” but when Isala asked Cole if he would respect Sera’s boundaries and stay out of her mind, he agreed, and that seemed to relax the rogue, at least a bit. The pair was tasked with shopping for supplies and doing reconnaissance in the city as she and Solas explored the elven ruins where they had determined the veil was weakest. She trusted they would do the tasks, and hopefully not be too uncomfortable working together.

At that moment, Isala and Solas were walking through the ruins of an ancient elven structure; its stone pillars still strong and elegant, the gilded molding faded but beautiful, mosaiced ceiling mostly aged away but still glinting in the morning light that refracted off the colored tiles. It was half formed and still breathtaking. She had heard people speak highly of Val Royeaux, but none of the structures in that city, nor any she’d seen, could hold a candle to the elven ruins she had seen in her lifetime. Soon enough Isala would see Halamshiral on their quest at the Winter Palace, but she doubted the place held more than warped echoes of her people’s time. She dreaded their visit as much as she found herself looking forward to being there. But that was an issue for another time. 

Isala stepped through the broken archway of the entry, staring in wonder at the water droplets that shone in the sunlight, like jewels on the foliage that blanketed the stone. The grates glowed in the warm rays and the water that rushed behind them led to crumbling stairs, their carved designs shining with the remnants of last night’s storm. At the moment the day was clear, but the cold scent of water in the air made her feel that it might return in the next few days. She hoped it would wait; more rain would likely disrupt their research. 

The jacket and fur mantle she wore over her armor was warm enough, though her hands and feet were inevitably cold, bare as they were. But her ears were coldest; even with her hair down the cool air seemed to nip at the tips, the metal of her piercings almost painful. She rubbed them absentmindedly, and shifted the basket and stave on her back, glancing up at Solas as she did so. He was wearing layered furs and clothing with light armor. The dark green cloak he wore over them swayed in the wind, and he rested a gloved hand on a strap of his pack, the staff strapped to it swaying slightly as he observed their surroundings. 

Solas raised his face to the sky, eyes scanning the ruins’ ceiling as he once again offered his hand to Isala, making sure she was steady climbing the steps. She laughed as she took it, grateful for the stability. “Is this a result of the ambassador’s preparation of our party for the ball at the Winter Palace?” He looked down, slight confusion quickly replaced by amusement. 

“The ambassador is teaching us all many things. This, however, comes naturally. Helping those in need is a good practice, and a lesson I learned early.” They came to the top of the steps and just as Isala let go, Solas swayed slightly; wet moss beneath his boots catching him off guard. She reached out and steadied him, her bare feet braced apart, fingers buried in his sleeves, gripping him. Isala laughed, smiling up at him as he looked almost abashed; the tips of his ears tinged red as the hood of his cloak fell back. 

“I quite agree.” Solas righted himself, stepping carefully from the mossy carpet and moving closer to her giving his thanks as he did so. They were only inches apart...his body heat seemed to radiate off him in the cool air, stone damp beneath her feet, a slight wind picking up her hair and causing her to shiver. She wanted to step even closer...

Isala pulled her furs closer around her neck and gestured to Solas, head tilted in a silent question. He smiled and nodded, one hand moving to the small of her back as they walked further into the ruins. His voice broke the silence, steady and light as they moved more quickly than before, feet naturally finding better tread despite the wet terrain. “So, _l_ _ethallen_ ,” The term warmed her to hear and she smiled, resisting the urge to look back at him to see his expression. “We had discussed before the findings at Dirthamen’s temple, as well as what you sensed there. I felt it as well. We came here today to measure the veil and investigate the weakness, yes? What else drew you here?” Isala _did_ turn then, slightly surprised, golden eyes gazing up into violet. 

“What makes you think there is more?” Solas smiled, something in his gaze made her feel the same as when she summoned lightning, or when the mark connected with a rift; energy humming through her as he answered.

“With you, Isala, there is always more.” The way he said it...she wanted to close her eyes and sink into those words. What _was_ it about him...She took a deep breath, facing forward again to try and hide her blush. Solas smiled as she did so, seeing the tips of her ears and her cheeks turn pink as she walked slightly ahead of him, faster than before. 

“What I sensed felt familiar. Not just that the veil was thin but that there was almost a rippling; like a current was running through it. It reminded me of what I felt from the orb Corypheus wielded. That of our people.” Solas no longer balked or refuted, but his silence held an air of something almost like unease. Isala turned again to look at him, seeing he’d stopped walking, as though rooted in place. She walked back to him, tilting her head to see his expression. As she looked his face lifted and he smiled, but something in his eyes had shifted, the violet looking more distant than before. 

“I am impressed you can sense such undulations, let alone ascertain their nature as akin to that of the orb.” Isala faltered, confused by this change in him, keeping her gaze on his, steady and probing, asking him why he was pulling back. Before she could respond, he walked past her, moving ahead to walk up the steps of the inner sanctum and stopping to stand in front of a carved table in the center. She walked behind him cautiously, keeping her distance, still trying to understand what she had said to make him uncomfortable. 

Solas looked down at the table, it’s center carved in layered circles as though for something to be placed inside. As Isala approached, he looked up, as though he had forgotten she was there, and then smiled, looking reticent. “But then again, I should know better by now than to make assumptions about you, or this world.” The shutters that he had drawn were gone, and once again he looked down at her, gaze open, posture dignified but relaxed. Isala smiled, glad to see his “return.” 

“I respect you, and your knowledge, Solas. I wanted to come here to measure the veil and ply at its fragility to try and discern if there are any causes, and to see if discovering more about the nature of the veil and magic in this place could give us more information on the orb.” It was his turn to smile, seeming to appreciate her compliments and her process. 

“An excellent idea. How do you wish to do this? I have a few ideas myself, but...” 

For the next several hours, Isala and Solas were occupied with discussions of the most accurate and effective methods of gathering information, experimenting with magic and techniques. She recorded all of their findings in her research notes, gathering samples as well, and making sure to also take down details of the ruins themselves and the secrets and beauties they kept. Isala hadn’t even noticed that the sun was setting and the air was so cold her feet were numb until Solas came up behind her, placing his cloak around her and speaking to her softly. 

“I have completed the independent research on my end. What of you? Whether you are finished or not, night is falling and it would seem it is time to return to Val Chevin.” Isala sighed in disappointment over the need to leave, but smiled at Solas in appreciation, savoring the warmth of the cloak and trying not to bask in his scent; today it was sandalwood and mist. _Today_. She managed not to blush and gestured to her notes, tone amused.

“Whether I am finished or not, this excursion is as the day has ended and so has my supply of paper.” Solas chuckled, holding her elbow to help Isala stand; her limbs stiff with both cold and too long in one position. 

“We may return another time, if you wish. But for tonight, it would be best to find an inn to rest for the night; it smells like rain, and we will soon need to return to Skyhold with our findings.”

She sighed again, nodding in agreement, though sad to leave the ruins. Their discoveries concerning the nature of the veil in this place were fascinating, and Isala was eager to discuss them further with Solas upon their return. At that time, however, it was best to stay in the city for the night. Solas was right; it seemed the storm was returning and she did not want their hard-earned and precious results ruined by rain, let alone to be soaked to the bone in the cold. Isala placed offerings at the shrines of the Creators and gave her prayers as Solas packed their things. They headed back to Val Chevin walking quickly to race the clouds gathering overhead as the sun ebbed behind the horizon.

∞ ∞ ∞

“Right, well, it’s not my fault. I didn’t know we had a friggin budget.” Isala closed her eyes for a moment, trying to push down her amusement. 

“Sera, the Inquisition has ascended to power quickly and stabilized over the past year, but that doesn’t mean we can use the money however we choose. We _need_ to prioritize--”

“I _did_ prioritize! I have priorities!” Cole nodded solemnly, hat bobbing as he did so.

“Wasps.” Solas let out an exasperated sigh, rubbing his brow in frustration, but out of the corner of her eye Isala could see his lips twitching slightly, tempted to smile. 

They were standing outside an inn within a small town on the outskirts of Val Chevin, having reunited and headed to a less populated place to find shelter for the night. The party was talking in semi hushed tones after Solas and Isala had discovered while trying to pay for their rooms that they were now several sovereigns short of what was needed. Sera and Cole wouldn’t be staying the night so that wasn’t the issue. Their presence was requested by Cullen and Leliana for a mission, so they only needed two rooms for Solas and Isala. But given Sera’s priorities in purchasing several new grenades, recipes, and a very explicit bust of a nude woman, they were short in terms of coin. 

All this seemed to suggest that Isala and Solas would need to share a room, a prospect that made her heart flutter and her stomach drop. Just as she was considering what that meant Solas spoke, his tone even.

“No matter. I can sleep outdoors. I am more than accustomed to such conditions by now.” Isala looked up to see his eyes trained on her, gaze steady, as though waiting for her reaction. She wondered at his expression, and the vague sense of disappointment she felt settling in as she responded.

“If that is so there’s no need to rent a room at all, I too am used to sleeping outdoors. We can camp outside, set up barriers, and save what we have left.” Sera let out a groan, eyes rolling so far back in her head Isala almost worried they might disappear.

“Blah blah blah, I’m elfier than you. Let's sleep outside with the bugs and the muck and frolic in the forest before bed. Varric would eat this up. Take the stupid room!!” Isala let out a soft laugh and opened her mouth to reply as Solas let out a heavy sigh, but before she could speak thunder sounded overhead, echoing out into a low rumble that made Sera jump and clutch her jar of wasps as Cole commented that the sky was hurting. As though to drive the point home, the first droplet hit Sera square on the forehead, making her squeeze her eyes shut and yelp as more followed, slowly but steadily building into a downpour. Sera let out a frustrated groan and a string of curses as she yanked up her hood and shoved Isala into Solas, pushing them both to the door of the inn. 

“That's it. Get in there and shove off! I’m getting out of here before I get bone soaked and you two,” She opened the door and all but kicked them inside. “are getting a sodding room!!” Isala barely had time to wish them a safe journey before Sera slammed the door behind the two. Isala moved to the window to watch them leave, calling out to the pair to take care, to which Sera gave a wave as though to simultaneously thank her and tell her to stop hovering, and Cole gave a wide smile, basking in the rain and following after Sera in no hurry. 

Isala couldn’t bring herself to turn and look at Solas, an odd feeling of unrest settling over her as he leaned in from behind to look out the window, chuckling softly as Sera yelled at Cole to hurry up. She could feel his body behind hers; heat radiating from him as though he would burn her if they were to touch. There was a moment of silence as Isala tried to think of something to say to ease this odd sense of tension, but Solas broke it first, placing his hand in the small of her back and making her jump. He let out a soft chuckle, looking down at her with a gentle expression that did nothing to ease the weight in the pit of her stomach. 

“I apologize, I didn’t mean to startle you. I would suggest we get a room quickly, before more come in seeking shelter and there are none left.” Isala nodded in agreement, the sensation of his hand against her lingering and making her feel warm despite the damp cloth that clung to her body. She moved towards the bar where the innkeeper and bartender were talking with one another, eyeing the weather outside with satisfied expressions as Solas gathered their belongings. 

She never enjoyed this part, but Josie had insisted; Leliana also said there was no need to hide Isala’s status as Inquisitor unless they were being covert. Being seen staying in regular establishments rather than those that were more upscale once in a while would also improve the Inquisition’s image, or so Josephine said. Isala tried not to feel like a chess piece as she placed the Inquisitor’s symbol on the wooden surface of the front desk by the bar, steeling herself for the reaction. 

The waitstaff that had been manning the desk opened their mouth slightly, eyes widening in surprise first at Isala’s appearance, then at the token she had lain on the desk. They glanced up quickly to double check her ears, before stating they would bring the owner and walking quickly over to the innkeeper. Hushed tones, the waitstaff’s voice pitched high with anxiety, still reached Isala’s ears despite their efforts to be subtle. Sometimes superior hearing was as much a burden as an advantage. The innkeeper seemed incensed to think that an elf of such high status was visiting his establishment, and kept insisting to his employee that it must be a mistake, or more likely, a con. He had several words for them, scammers being the kindest. Isala wondered if he knew she could understand Orlesian, and if he did whether he cared. 

Their exchange continued for a moment before she heard a distinct curse in Orlesian, and the innkeeper straightened and walked to stand in front of Isala. He offered a simpering smile that made her skin crawl, clasping his hands in front of him, knuckles of his fingers white, taut with the anger he felt over needing to be polite to an elf. Though he obviously resented her being of higher status than he was, he had no qualms with overcharging for the room. Something in her cool stare when he tried though made the innkeeper falter and rescind his initial prices, mouth twisting as he did so, as though tasting something bitter. He still presented it as though it were a discount, and managed to get in a few jibes about her race as he fawned over her.

Isala paid for their room and for a meal to be brought in later. She was considering paying the fee for hot water for a bath when the innkeeper and bartender made some pointed comments to one another about “frisky elves” in Orlesian, glancing with sneers at where Solas stood. She decided that she would use magic instead, rather than give them any more money than necessary. 

Solas was standing farther away and hadn’t heard the comments over the bustle of the inn as it filled with even more people, but immediately sensed something was wrong, watching the mask of dignified indifference that fell over her face as eyes followed the pair on their way to their room. The bartender whispered something to some men at the counter, prompting loud laughter and jeers that caused Isala to clench her fists, the familiar hum of magic offering to rise. She quieted it but Solas noticed; he narrowed his eyes at the humans by the counter. It would seem something had to be done. 

When they arrived in the chamber Isala sighed, rolling her shoulders and walking in, looking around. There were various tables throughout the room, which she was relieved to see was very spacious. A chaise lounge was arranged across from a fireplace in one of the walls and a dresser and vanity set against another. In the corner of the room there was a stone bath, empty of water but with soap, cleansers for hair, and pails to wash. She flushed at the sight, not realizing how little privacy there was, only a small divider to give privacy when changing, and then her eyes settled on the bed. It was large, but not large enough; meant for couples and sitting stately centered in the room against the black wall, canopy billowing outwards romantically, rose petals on the ivory sheets. 

Very careful not to look at the bed, Isala moved to one of the windows on either side of the bed, opening it to bask in the scent of the rain. She turned to look over her shoulder at Solas, explaining. “I decided I’d rather not spend any more money on this place than necessary, so for the bath water...” She gestured outside to the downpour and gave a wry smile. “I hope you don’t mind.” Solas looked at her and nodded, smiling in return.

“I see no reason why not. One moment, I will help you.”

Isala turned back to the open window and inhaled deeply, basking in the natural discord outside before using her magic to begin drawing the water into the room and directing it to the empty stone bath. Solas arranged their things as she did so, performing simple spells to clean the dirt and water from the surfaces. When he finished, he glanced down at himself, seeing his boots were caked in mud. He discarded them and cleaned the floors, seeing footprints leading to where Isala stood by the window. She had forgotten to wipe her feet, that was not like her. 

Solas picked up a basin and redirected the flow of water she was pulling in from outside, causing Isala to tilt her head in a question rather than ask outright. He gestured for her to sit on the lounge and willed the water into the tub as she did so, heating it before kneeling in front of her to gently grasp an ankle. She let out a soft sound of surprise, flinching at his touch as her eyes widened. He gave a small chuckle, enjoying this reaction, and proceeded to wash the silt from her feet. 

“Solas, please. You don’t need to do this. I--”

His gaze silenced her, a single glance that conveyed something...something she could not yet name. He did not do this out of a warped desire to serve, nor did he find it degrading. He seemed to do it because he cared...? Cared about _her_? Isala trembled at his touch, she couldn’t help it. The idea alone of being touched was overwhelming, she was not used to it, after all. Let alone the sensation of Solas-- _Solas_ \--washing her feet for her. She felt an odd sensation in the pit of her stomach, something fluttering and aching that made her feel exposed. She wanted to pull away and yet she didn’t want to lose this moment with him, didn’t want to avoid his touch...

“--did they say?” Isala blinked slowly, as though shaking off sleep, Solas had picked up her left foot after gently drying the other, once again running his fingers along her skin, pressing the mud away. He had asked her a question, it seemed, and for once she hadn’t been listening. He glanced up at her, expression solemn as he repeated himself. 

“What did they say? The innkeeper and the men at the bar.” Isala did not care for this question, the feeling of shame and anger overpowering this moment between the two of them, whatever it was. 

“I think you know. With your intellect you hardly need me to explain.” Solas wiped off her other foot and removed the dirt from the water and his hands to be swept outside, cleaning his hands. He stood, placing the empty basin on his hip as he raised a hand to grasp her chin, gently lifting her face so he could look down into her eyes, grey-blue and violet staring into golden pools blurred with emotion.

“I always need you--” Solas caught himself, lips quirking in a small smile. “your counsel. I am always curious to hear your thoughts.” Isala wanted to tear her eyes away; break this connection and shield her vulnerability, but she couldn’t. She just stood there, staring into his eyes and basking in the sensation of being seen, _truly_ seen, for once struggling to find the right words-- 

A knock on the door startled the pair and Solas’ hand dropped from her chin as they moved apart. A maid entered the chamber, placing sleeping clothes on the dresser and giving them a very judgmental, and very Orlesian, once-over. She offered them options for their meals and drinks, advertising the fee for hot water to bathe in that seemed to be very overpriced. She did all of this coolly with a bored expression, obviously annoyed at having to serve elves. Though she deigned to give Solas a onceover and seemed impressed by him, she looked at Isala with disdain. Solas gave her an equally cool response, which seemed to surprise her, and she left the room looking miffed after they had given her their orders. Isala doubted they would get what they had asked for, and Solas agreed, but didn’t seem worried. She assumed he knew some way to get what they wanted through other means. Isala had an inkling that was a specialty of his.

The inertia of that moment they had just experienced together remained, but was stalled as the pair prepared for bed, organizing their things, continuing to fill and heat the bath, setting up wards just in case anyone from the inn, be it staff or guests, had any ideas on paying an unwelcome visit, and so on. As if on cue, there was another knock on the door, but this time the person on the other side waited for their response, whether out of respect or an inability to enter due to the wards. They exchanged a look and Solas walked forward, opening the door to reveal a short stocky figure. Their head lifted slightly as they pushed back their hood, revealing brown, pointed ears. There was a soft exchange between them and Solas as the other elf pushed a large basket filled to the brim with an array of goods into Solas’ arms and gave Isala a shy smile before hurrying away from the door.

She tilted her head in curiosity as Solas closed and recast the wards on the door, basket in hand. He smiled wryly at her, gesturing to the contents which she now saw included an assortment of what looked like very expensive items, including decadent food and cakes, a few bottles of a luxurious champagne, and fruits. 

“It would seem we have an ally in our midst.” Isala smiled at this, feeling gratified and slightly less like she was in enemy territory. She would need to thank the elven staff. Perhaps with her power as Inquisitor she could help them somehow...

They set aside the basket after she finished rifling through the contents to satisfy her curiosity, prompting a low chuckle from Solas, who seemed amused by her need to know. Isala discovered a pouch of bath salts with a fresh herbal scent and dried flower petals mixed in, and held it up, smiling widely at Solas’ raised brows. 

They had finished filling the bath and heated it together. Solas insisted she enter first, and promised not to watch, looking amused at her hesitation. Isala wasn’t usually that embarrassed by nudity; her clan sometimes swam naked together and practiced communal bathing, but something about being naked in proximity to Solas...the idea alone made her feel like she needed to jump into Sahrnia’s river. 

Isala sank into the bath, enjoying the heat penetrating her sore muscles and the cloying scent of the salt and herbs. Hearing Solas move around the room made her feel hyper aware even as she felt her body relax. When she couldn’t hear him she had to resist the urge to check that he wasn’t looking. When Isala was finished bathing and soaking she emerged, drying herself off and keeping her gaze forward, anxious to meet Solas’ eyes, and yet dreading the prospect. 

As she turned from the bath towards the dresser by the bed she froze in place, seeing Solas standing before her, shirtless, his russet skin lit up in the candlelight, hair released from the braid that had held the hair dark strands back, tunic over an arm. He smiled apologetically, and moved out of her way, gaze angled down. 

Isala had forgotten she was still nude. 

She walked past him, trying not to curl in on herself with the intense feeling of exposure, hoping she looked calm. She had been so focused on averting her eyes and fighting the heat rushing to her cheeks she hadn’t registered her own vulnerability. Isala quickly donned her nightgown and a robe, moving to sit at the vanity so she could brush her hair and calm herself down. As she raised her face to the glass she tried not to listen to the sound of cloth against skin and water being displaced by a body as he entered the bath. 

A sudden realization when she met her reflection drowned out all sound and thought, however. 

She could see him. 

Reflected in the vanity was Solas; soaking in the bath, an expression of relaxation and surprised contentment settled on his face, his dark hair floating in the water as steam rose from the surface. She looked away in embarrassment, bringing her hands to her face as though to press away the heat in her cheeks as she frantically tried to remember where he had been staying as she bathed. Unable to resist, Isala looked into the mirror again, checking to see if he knew. Their eyes met, and he smiled, looking amused and almost mischievous. She couldn’t even be angry, she wasn’t, but she couldn’t have been. Any emotion was overshadowed by the heat in her cheeks and the sudden need to stand up. Isala rose, hearing a soft chuckle from the bath as she purposefully turned from the vanity to sit on the lounge by the fireplace, brush clutched in her fingers.

She gently pulled the bristles through her hair as she recited Elvish in an attempt to calm her nerves, but it wasn’t working. The sound of the bath drawing out the crackle of the fireplace and the words in her mind. Isala glanced around the room and her gaze settled on the basket. Her eyes were drawn to the expensive champagne bottles cradled within. Perhaps that could help calm her nerves...

When Solas rose from the bath, he felt refreshed in many ways. He also felt a bit sorry over how he had teased the Inquisitor but...he had not lied, nor broken his promise. He hadn’t known either, until it was too late. By that point he couldn’t take his eyes off of her. The way the water glistened on her, white hair splayed out around her like moonlight reflected in a pool, light brown skin flushed from the heat, the expression of bliss on her face as her eyes closed and her full lips curved up in a satisfied smile...He shook his head and centered himself. He could not afford to have such thoughts, nor such feelings. They were distractions he could not afford. _Too many reasons not to._

_But too many reasons why he wanted to._

As he donned a soft pair of breeches to sleep in and dried his hair, searching for a tunic, Solas glanced around the room, surprised he did not see Isala. He walked over to the basket and saw two bottles of champagne standing beside it, one of which appeared empty. Turning, he saw Isala, white nightgown and hair disheveled, her golden eyes sparkling with impish amusement, cheeks flushed as she lay back on the lounge, smiling playfully, champagne glass held elegantly in delicate fingers. 

“ _Ma ane tarsul!_ ” She giggled slightly, moving to put an arm under her head, gazing up at Solas. “ _Tel’telsila! Ar ema ea on...ar dir’vhen’an tel’itha._ ” She hiccupped and laughed again, the hand carrying the champagne glass swaying dangerously as her hand relaxed, the little remaining liquid threatening to spill. “ _Vhenan? Nae, ‘dir’vhen’an,’ din ‘vhenan.’_ ” More giggles as she slid further down the lounge, her nightgown hiked up over her thighs more dangerous than the champagne threatening to spill. Solas tried to ignore the heat in his body and the fluttering in his chest as he reached forward and grabbed the glass before it spilled, taking the opportunity to pull down Isala’s dress to cover her legs as he did so. 

She frowned as he took the glass from her and placed it on the table beside the basket. “ _Nae! Ar ame tel’tarsul! Ar nuvena..._ ” Isala almost seemed to be pouting, gaze trained on the champagne bottles. Solas couldn’t stifle his chuckles as he donned the tunic and rifled through the contents of the basket to retrieve bread, honey, and fruit, bringing them over to where she now sat, hands between her legs, brows knit in frustration with him. He showed what he held, voice gentle and amused.

“ _Irr’abelas, lethallen. Ma is ga sul min'nydha. Ju’ma ava sulrahn sul em?_ ” He offered her the bread, filled with dried fruits and nuts and coated in honey. She frowned at him for a moment before her face broke into a smile and she beamed, almost glowing in the firelight. 

“ _Sul ma, fenor’len? Ma nuvenin_.” Isala leaned forward, hair spilling over her shoulders like the champagne, lashes casting shadows on her flushed cheeks, mouth opening to take the bread from his fingers, the collar of her nightgown too low from the angle--

Solas had had his willpower tested before, but never like this. Isala patted the space on the lounge beside her until he sat next to her, and watched excitedly as he peeled fruits for her and fed her the food by hand. He had never seen this side of her before; almost child-like in her desire to be spoiled, and so honest. Not the guarded openness she usually carried herself with. 

When she was full and Solas was satisfied she had eaten enough food to hopefully help her sober more quickly. He put the knife away and sat back, watching Isala with amusement. She had chattered at him in Elvish for the past hour or so, telling him stories of her clan and legends, interesting findings from her research, childhood mishaps, and various other topics. It would seem she had tired herself out. Now she sat with her legs tucked against her chest, swaying slightly on the lounge next to him, eyelashes fluttering. Just as he thought she might fall asleep, she opened her mouth and began to sing softly.

“ _In elgar sa vir mana, tel’dru’ast somniar. Mya vir’revas lana, Ema val ahn ra sulevas._ ” Her voice was high and naturally melodic with a husky undertone that soothed him, the words and refrain melancholic. He spoke softly to her as she sang a few more lines and then stopped, swaying again. 

“ _Suleval ahn?_ ” Isala smiled sleepily and leaned her head against his shoulder, nestling into him. 

“ _Ma tel’dirtha Elvhenor_ ?” Solas felt as though something inside him was being torn apart when he felt her heat against him, her voice soft and relaxed. “It is a song that serves...as a lesson. A reminder. Of who we are...what we,” She yawned and leaned into him more, nestling further and prompting him to raise his arm instinctively as she burrowed into his chest. “What we must pursue.” 

He hesitated, but asked anyway, wanting to know the answer. “Why does it sound so sad?” 

“Perhaps because those who wrote it believed it is lost? Or that we are the last?” Isala sighed, breathing in his scent, the same as hers. “Perhaps because they wanted to learn more?” A quiet laugh. “I can understand it all, but that in particular. I want to know more...about everything.” A long pause. “About you.” 

Solas’ heart leapt, heat rushing into his limbs as he instinctively wrapped an arm around her, something in his throat tightening up. He shifted slightly, Isala looking up at him sleepily, confused. 

_This would not do._

He tore his gaze away, throat and fists clenched as he reminded himself what was at stake. “I would tell you.” Solas was surprised to hear the words escape his own lips and turned to look at Isala, almost afraid she would be listening. Relief, echoed by disappointment, washed over him when he saw her eyelids closed, chest rising and falling evenly as she slept. 

Solas picked her up and carried her to the bed, trying to ignore the feel of her body in his arms, and laid her down on the bed. When he moved to go back to the couch, he felt a decisive tug that brought him onto the mattress beside her, Isala’s arms around his upper body like a vice. His subtle attempts to get loose were thwarted, and her sound of protest when he tried to pull away more significantly stalled him. Resigned, Solas lay beside her, pulling the blankets over them both. The respectful distance he had managed to give her was quickly breached as she nestled against him once more, already fast asleep. 

For once, he struggled to sleep as well.

∞ ∞ ∞

Waking was difficult; Isala couldn’t find the seam between dreams and reality, the feeling of opening her eyes too faint for her to be sure she was awake. A sharp pain that pierced her brows succeeded in rousing her as she winced, lifting a hand to rub her forehead. Isala propped herself up on her elbows, staring around at her surroundings as she blinked, trying to adjust to being out of the Fade and in the physical realm, her body heavy and her head...she winced again, running her hands through her hair and groaning softly. Isala recognized the pounding in her skull as a hangover. Whispering a soft curse, she looked at the space next to her in the bed, the sheets slightly mussed, pillow rumpled as though someone had been sleeping beside her...she froze. _Oh...Fenedhis_. 

Isala bolted upright, sitting back on her knees and looking around her, more alert as she tried to find Solas. They had slept together. Shared a _bed_. Creators grant her strength, Isala wasn’t sure she could face him, even as she frantically glanced around the room trying to see where he’d gone. As she eased herself off the bed to check behind the ornate room divider, she heard the sound of wood and metal against each other and spun to see him walking into the room, already changed into fresh clothes and carrying their garments from the other day over his arm, freshly laundered. Their eyes met and he smiled, expression amused. 

“ _On dhea, lethallen._ ” Isala responded softly, turning slightly to shield herself as she went to retrieve a robe, wrapping it around herself as she walked to the water basin by the bath, splashing and washing her face as she tried to calm her inner turmoil. It was not that different from sleeping with one of her clan; she simply needed to think of it that way. He was her friend, a close companion. An equal who respected her, who she felt safe with...safer than she had ever felt before. _Why was that_ ? The sound of cloth and papers shuffling made Isala turn, brushing her hair over her shoulder as she looked at Solas, laying their clothes on the bed covers. Her eyes focused past him at the table where the basket still sat, its contents half emptied, the champagne bottles standing devoid of liquid beside it. _Oh, no_.

“How is your condition? I had never seen you consume so much in one sitting. I worry you may be experiencing the...after effects of such a venture.” She was, including the embarrassment. Isala was suddenly struck with the philosophical question of whether it was worse to remember a night of intoxication, or worse to forget. She supposed the answer didn’t matter; no matter what, she remembered. She prayed to the Creators that her cheeks were not as red as they felt. 

“I was...distracted. I fear I was carried away...If I caused you trouble or discomfort, _Irr’abelas_.” Solas smiled, his eyes dancing. His hair was down, and he looked relaxed somehow, as though he had let something loose. 

“Nothing too serious.” There was a moment of silence as Isala retrieved her clothing and armor, ducking behind the divider to change. As she did so, Solas spoke again, his voice softer. “It was...refreshing. To see a new side of you.” She wasn’t sure she had heard him correctly. Isala peered around the divider, trying to see his expression, but his back was turned as he donned his furs, face angled down.

“Perhaps some sides should stay hidden” She called out, tone playful as she pulled on her hide boots and adjusted her jacket. “We all have a part of ourselves we would prefer to stay hidden, isn’t that so?” Solas glanced up sharply, his brows furrowed slightly, as though confused, then his face relaxed and he gave a faint smile. 

“I suppose you are right. Are your preparations finished?” Isala had expected more banter, but nodded, walking over to sort the rest of the supplies from their late night gift, with the exception of the champagne, into her basket. That finished, she shouldered her basket and retrieved her stave, pausing as Solas leaned past her to retrieve his own staff, voice low in her ears. “Perhaps some should, but I enjoyed seeing yours.” He walked over to the door and opened it, waiting for her to collect her wits, and her dignity, and exit the room.

The journey back to Skyhold was long; it felt even longer after meeting up with Cullen and the others along the coast, their mission finished. The ship with Cullen, Cole, Sera, Solas, and over a dozen mages and disbanded templars meant the atmosphere was tense to put it lightly. They were all relieved upon their return, but likely none as much as Cullen, who had endured not only Sera and Cole, but the tensions between the mages and former templars, and Isala’s steady, judgmental gaze watching how he handled them. Ever since she had addressed him for his past actions and his current unwillingness and inability to take accountability for his actions and biases and make changes, he had seemed almost intimidated by her. She found, to her surprise, that she enjoyed this. Any sympathy she felt for him was outweighed by things she continued to hear him say and see him do. He would need to try harder to earn her approval, let alone redemption. 

Upon arriving in Skyhold, the commander practically jogged away from where Solas and Isala stood in the gateway. Leliana spared Cullen an amused glance as he passed her quickly. The Nightingale faced the pair and smiled in greeting, her lilting voice even, accent making the words almost melodic.

“You’ve returned! What news do you bring, was your research fruitful?” Isala smiled in return, happy to see the spymaster seemed to be in good spirits, so to speak. 

“ _Aneth’ara_ Nightingale! I believe it was. If there is another opportunity I would like to return for further research, but we were able to learn much about the nature of the veil in that area, and gathered more information about the anomalies I sensed there.” Leliana looked satisfied with this, glancing up at Solas. 

“I assume the two of you wish to work more on this together before presenting your findings?” He smiled amicably. 

“That would be my preference, yes. But it is up to Isala.” He looked down at where she stood beside him, looking tired but content, cheeks flushed with the cold, hair tousled and salt-kissed from their sea voyage and journey over the Frostback Mountains. She met his gaze, looking grateful. 

“Mine as well. Even before our discussions with one another, I would very much appreciate being able to bathe and recover from the journey.” Leliana nodded, looking almost amused. She reached out and plucked a twig from the strands of Isala’s hair, prompting a grin from the elf.

“That sounds agreeable, and well in order. I’ll ask the staff to bring the bath to your quarters, Inquisitor. I assume you would like to take your time, yes? If you leave your clothing and anything that needs washing outside of the door, Josie says there are new recruits who are on washing duty.” An impish smile. “They could use the character building, it would seem.” 

The spymaster gave them a friendly parting phrase and walked off into the crowd of people filling the courtyard as the afternoon sun swung overhead. She almost seemed to disappear into their midst, and Isala shook her head before heaving a long sigh. Skyhold was comfortable, but it was not home. Still, returning there made her feel as though at least part of a burden was being lifted from her shoulders, and the relief was enough to make her sway on her feet. A warm hand on the small of her back steadied her and she smiled; she didn’t need to look to know it belonged to Solas. 

They walked together in silence, ascending the steps and entering the hallway, the heat of the space a relief from the cold outside. Isala ignored Varric peering at them above the bindings of an open book, his eyes dancing with amusement seeing the two of them together. She felt she would sooner eat rashvine than have him know about what had transpired between her and Solas on their trip. Pushing the memories from her mind, Isala turned to look up at Solas, her eyes heavy-lidded with fatigue.

“Well then, this is where we part ways. At least for now. Thank you for your help on this trip, Solas. Truly, _ma serannas_.” He considered her, very aware of the dwarf’s intent gaze and the many occupants in the great hall. Solas opened his lips to say something, but stopped himself, smiling a bit reproachfully to himself. 

“ _Ma ane vhalla_. It was no trouble, and I quite enjoyed it myself.” His expression changed, eyes glittering in the warm light of the hall. “Thanks to the journey I was able to see and learn many new things.” Isala blushed with embarrassment, but before she could respond they were interrupted by a richly accented voice, pitched high with urgency but still dignified. 

“Inquisitor Lavellan!” Josephine hurried towards the pair, weaving her way down the hall from her office, pace brisk but elegant, her navy skirts billowing gracefully as the gilding on her clothing glistened in the light from the fires. Her umber cheeks were flushed with exertion but there was not so much as a hair out of place.

“What a relief to see you’ve returned safely. I apologize for requesting your assistance so soon after your journey but...” 

And so Isala followed the ambassador to sort out a diplomatic issue that needed her attention while Solas retreated to his rotunda, feeling rather odd over parting with her. As he began to put down his burdens and make his preparations to freshen up a low, cheerful voice spoke up from the doorway. 

“So! Chuckles. How was your honeymoon trip? Find anything useful?” The dwarf walked into the rotunda, crooked grin widening as his dark amber eyes danced. “Anything... _exciting_ happen?” Solas sighed, closing his eyes in half amusement, half exasperation as he turned from Varric, bringing a hand to his hair to release his hair from its braid, long hair spilling over his shoulders. 

“I would hardly label the journey suitable for the term ‘honeymoon.’ And the fact that you say such things makes me believe you have grossly misunderstood the purpose of the excursion.” He walked back over to his desk and sat in his chair, resigned to converse with Varric until the other man was satisfied. Exciting things _had_ happened, but nothing he would share with the dwarf, no matter how friendly he was. He could not have others know about his selfish desires, particularly not someone who tended to write novels about his companions and their ventures.

Varric let out a dramatic sigh, walking around the table to stand in front of where the elven man sat, massaging the space between his brows, eyes closed. The dwarf watched Solas from under lowered lids, playing casual. “That’s a shame. If you don’t make a move soon I worry someone else will cut in and try to sweep Scholar off her feet.” Violet-blue eyes snapped open and Solas looked sharply at Varric, who carefully considered his nails. 

“What makes you think that is a possibility, child of the stone?” Varric shrugged, turning away, looking very disinterested for someone who had broached the subject. 

“I hear Ruffles has her hands full with another type of diplomatic issue. Apparently, suitors are lining up left and right for our Inquisitor. I’ve also heard from various... _reliable_ , sources that there are people interested in her within the ranks of the Inquisition too.” The dwarf turned back to Solas, grinning cheerfully. “Seems she’s sought after in various ways. I wouldn’t drag my feet if I were you.” The elven man looked down at where his hands had fallen in his lap, surprised to see them clenched together, knuckles light with tension. He relaxed them slowly, rubbing the tendons as he considered his words carefully. 

“Even if my feelings for the Inquisitor were as you assume, and I were to admit to them, I do not think I would take romantic advice from _you_ , Varric.” The dwarf chortled; to Solas’ surprise there was no edge to it, the man’s expression was relaxed and open. 

“Chuckles, if you think I’m the only one who’s noticed, your observation skills need work.” The stocky man turned towards the door to the hallway, waving as he threw a last comment over his shoulder. “From where I stand, you and Lavellan are the last ones to figure it out.” Solas sat there for a moment, his inner turmoil seemed to almost anchor him there, unable to move. 

_This would not do_ . If others had taken note of his interest--worse than that, others were _interested_ themselves. The thought of other people approaching Isala, the idea that one of them might garner her attention, might see the side of herself she kept hidden; the curve of full lips, supple skin, silken hair, golden eyes that glimmered and almost disappeared when veiled by long lashes-- Solas shook his head. _He couldn’t_. But he couldn’t stand the idea of anyone else either. He let out a long sigh, leaning back in his chair and tilting his head, chin raised as he looked at the ceiling, the birds caged above, wings fluttering restlessly in their coops. One word summarized his current predicament. 

“ _Fenedhis_.” 

∞ ∞ ∞

A few days had passed since their return from their excursion to the forest outskirts near Vel Chevin, and Isala had only finally been able to relax that morning. She stood on the balcony overlooking the Skyhold courtyard, furs wrapped around her casual attire, feet bare and hair spread over her shoulders. It was a relief not having to put on airs or deal with people who judged her by appearances. Beyond conveying what they had found to the advisors and members of the Inquisition and digging deeper into their research together, she and Solas had not spoken much. He had been working with the Inquisition troops on combat techniques to repel and divert magic, and she had been kept busy with various political issues that required her attention. Some of those included marriage proposals from influential people, or even offers to accept her as their “mistress,” as though it were a favor or an honor they extended to her and not an insult she would answer with devastation should they ask it of her in person. 

To the people of this world Isala was perceived as feminine, and not only that, but sexualized in a way that brought her anger and discomfort. The number of times she had seen proof of humans’ fetishization of elves as Inquisitor was disturbing. She had known before that it existed, but until she entered these more urban, human-populated spaces she hadn’t realized the extent. Every statue of an elven person with their breasts laid bare, every sensual sculpture of an elf, body posed suggestively and exposed; they were as disturbing to her as Corypheus. To too many people elves were inferior in every way except aesthetics and fuckability. She hated it.

When she had told them she did not identify as a woman, her inner circle had apologized and corrected themselves in the way they addressed Isala. Some, like Cassandra, still slipped up once in a while, but what mattered was that they listened, and tried. Despite the acceptance, she felt uncomfortable knowing most thought of her as a woman, and a desirable one at that. Those with interest in her both sincere and political continued to press at her, as though she were a prize to be won or an artifact whose hand-over was to be negotiated. 

Isala had no experience with romance or intimacy, but she knew what it could look like, at least within her clan and couples she had seen at _Arlathvhens_. The vying for her attention these various suitors seemed to be performing was nothing close to it. She didn’t want a political alliance or to be someone’s pawn. She wanted an equal, someone who made her feel safe, with whom she could converse with and open up to, feel at home with and never tire of being with or learning more about, someone she would be truly seen by...

Isala leaned her elbows on the railing as she observed the movement that hummed through Skyhold like water through roots, or bees in a hive. Her eyes moved from the movement by the Skyhold gate to the sparring arena near the infirmary. The cold air was sharp against her skin, but her furs, as well as the view, were enough to keep her core warm. 

Solas was in the sparring ring, which was unusual; he tended to act more as an instructor, or train privately by himself. At that moment, however, he was battling Iron Bull, pressing forward with attack after attack, stave punching through the air as Bull fought to stand his ground, grunting with the effort as his guard was pummeled by Solas’ spells. The tall elven man was perspiring slightly, umber skin tinged red with effort, the robes he wore were tucked so he only wore one sleeve, leaving an arm exposed from the leather chestplate beneath. It was rare for him to show skin beyond his toes, and something about it made her heart flutter. Long dark hair swayed as he moved as naturally and easily as if he danced rather than sparred; something about his movements graceful and familiar to Isala in a way she could not place. 

Finally Solas’ assault ended and he stepped back, planting the wooden stave in the grass as he panted, saying something to Bull that made the Qunari tilt his head back and roar with laughter. Solas grinned at Bull’s response, shaking his head in amusement. They exchanged a few more words and pointed out where the other could use more work, and then parted ways, Iron Bull shouting after the elven man that he had better let him treat Solas to a drink, otherwise rumors would start that Bull was a sore loser. 

“Aren’t you?” Bull laughed, flipping Solas off before waving to Isala and resuming training, giving instructions and sparring with his Chargers. She waved back, amused at the exchange and pleased to see the pair on good terms. Solas had changed much in the past several months, including the way he talked about Qunari and Tal-Vashoth. Isala had warned him the next time he spoke the word savage she would cast a hex on him he could not undo without her help. The threat, but more so the efforts he put in to educate himself, had resulted in him retaining his strong views on the Qun, but being more respectful to the Qunari, as well as other races. His knowledge, respect, and desire to learn and improve the world was something Isala admired deeply about him...

“ _Lethallen_ , do you have a moment?” As she ruminated, Solas had walked up the steps to her, his eyes bright with adrenaline, skin gleaming with sweat and chest still moving fast from the effort of his exercise. Isala resisted the urge to avert her eyes, instead meeting his. 

“Thankfully today I have nothing _but_. Do you have need of me?” He smiled at her response, voice husky with exertion. 

“We have not had an opportunity to talk in quite a while.” Isala could not resist a soft hum of satisfaction. She was happy he had noticed, and that he seemed to have missed speaking with her. 

“Not since our excursion, no.” She hesitated, but continued. “It almost feels like it’s been _too_ long.” Solas gazed down at her, hair swaying as he leaned forward, then back again. His smile grew, a slightly playful lilt to it. _Or not long enough_. 

“You said before that you wished to know more about what we have discussed, and about the knowledge I hold.” _And about me_. He didn’t say it aloud, but his eyes spoke the words for him. Isala felt her throat tighten, stomach fluttering in both anticipation and fear. 

“ _Vin. Ar nuvena eolasa._ ” They hovered there for a moment, Solas gazing down at her, Isala up at him, feet apart but it felt like centimeters; as though they were already too close, as though that distance would be breached. He broke the silence before anything else could, leaning in slightly to speak in a low voice.

“You continue to surprise me. All right, I will tell you what you want to know. Let us talk; preferably somewhere more interesting than this.” They walked back to his rotunda, bodies close enough to touch but not quite; arms brushing against one another as they moved. When they entered Solas’ gallery, they walked instead up the steps of Haven, whole and bright from the midday sun, the snow beneath Isala’s bare feet no colder than a carpet, the wind that blew the banners of the hamlet like a spring breeze against her skin. They were in the Fade. She had muted the sensations for her comfort and now glanced at Solas, trying to see his expression.

“Why here?” He turned slightly, enough that she could see his gaze trained elsewhere, distant, but his lips were curved up slightly, voice light.

“Haven is familiar. It will always be important to you.” That wasn’t what she had meant with her question, but she let it go. Perhaps it was because it was where the sky had been ripped open, where she had been marked, where they had met, where everything had changed. It was true that it would always hold meaning to her. Now it had another experience for it to be seared into her heart. The pair walked past the mabari statues and phased into the prison cells below the Chantry. She tilted her head at him, curious why he had taken them there. Solas gestured to the center of the prison where Isala had originally been chained, manacles lying in the middle of the chantry emblem on the floor. He still did not look at her. “I sat beside you as you slept, studying the anchor.” Isala raised her brows. 

“That must have been daunting; a mark and leviathan tear in the veil, foreign magic at work, all while spirits were warped into demons and flung from the sky. How much time could you possibly spend to research the mark?” Solas smiled, finally facing her. 

“A magical mark of unknown origin, tied to a breach in the veil? Longer than you might think, after some convincing.” His expression changed to one of determination, gaze intent on hers. “I ran every test I could imagine, searched the Fade, yet found nothing. Cassandra suspected duplicity! She threatened to have me executed as an apostate if I didn’t produce results.” His tone was amused, as though he held no fears or worries over such a threat.

Isala smiled, shaking her head. “Cassandra’s redeeming quality is that she is equally unpleasant with everyone.” Solas laughed, head tilting as he grinned at her.

“Yes.” He turned and they were outside once again, walking from the great wooden doors of the Chantry, snow falling lightly from the sky that pulsed green with the Breach. “You were never going to wake up! How could you? A mortal sent physically through the Fade...” He stopped, turning to look at her again, voice low. “I was frustrated, frightened. The spirits I might have consulted had been driven away by the Breach. Although I wished to help I had no faith in Cassandra, or she in me. I was ready to flee...” 

She tilted her head in confusion as he trailed off, white hair spilling over her furs, bare feet shifting on the snow. “The Breach is a threat to not only Thedas, but the entire world. How did you plan to survive it? Where did you plan to go?” Solas chuckled, almost looking sheepish. 

“Some place far away, where I might research a way to repair the Breach before its effects reached me.” He paused, and looked to the side. “I never said it was a good plan.” Isala could not resist the amusement that tugged at her lips, though she tried. Solas smiled, seeming to understand, and turned from her, walking towards the Breach, his eyes trained on it as though entranced. 

“I told myself: one more attempt to seal the rifts.” He thrust an arm out, much like Isala did when the anchor was tugged to mend the rips in the veil. “I tried,” His hand fell limply at his side, gaze still resting on the Breach. “And failed. No ordinary magic would affect them. I watched the rifts expand and grow, resigned myself to flee and then--” Solas turned, that same mesmerized look in the way he watched her as when he watched the Breach; eyes wide with something like wonder, violet-blue bright as he looked at her the way he always did recently; _truly_ seeing her...

Suddenly the scenery changed, warping and shifting, Solas bringing them to the place where they had first met, his hand warm on hers, guiding her mark to meet the rift’s pull, the green glow bright and pulsing, his expression melting from one of desperation to fascination and relief--his hand left Isala’s wrist, her arm fell, and the scene changed again. Solas stood directly in front of her, the pair of them back in front of the Haven Chantry. His voice was low and soft as he quoted himself. 

“‘It seems you hold the key to our salvation.’ You had sealed it with a gesture! Right then,” Solas paused for a moment, voice deepening further, eyes staring into Isala’s. “I felt the whole world change.

She stood there for a moment, stunned. She had discovered over the time they had spent together that Solas was also a Dreamer, but she had never seen anyone shape the Fade like he did. And those words...There seemed to be something more to them, something that made her throat tighten and breath quicken, made her fingers tremble and her head spin. They felt _right_.

“Felt the whole world change...?” She stared up at Solas, golden eyes wide with wonder, the realization of what _she_ felt finally dawning on her--she had been _such_ a fool--

Solas seemed to sway, like he wanted to lean closer, but he pulled back instead, as though catching himself. He drew himself further upright, looking at her from under heavy lidded eyes, speaking quickly. “A figure of speech.” She dropped her gaze, feeling a fleeting sense of disappointment that faded when she heard those words again in her mind. Thinking of them in tandem with the time they had spent together, the things he had said, the heat of his hand in the small of her back, on her wrist, the way he looked at her...

“I’m aware of the metaphor. I’m more interested in ‘ _felt’_...in what way?” Solas shifted, as though trying to decide what to say, or fighting the urge to run. He closed his eyes, taking a deep breath, voice hoarse, as though he struggled to speak. They were only inches apart, his speech so soft she would have missed it despite the distance if they were not in the Fade. Instead it swept over her, leaving her feeling as though it lifted her up like the current of a river or the ocean tide. 

“You change...everything. _Everything_. More than you know.” His arms were at his sides, not behind his back where they usually rested, his fingers clenching and unclenching as though he fought with something within himself. Isala felt like the world was spinning. Perhaps it was, they were in the Fade after all. She concentrated on not imagining the ground falling away beneath her feet but still she felt as though she were floating. She opened her lips to speak but nothing came out. Isala was entranced, gazing at Solas, something in his eyes almost pleading, she wasn’t sure what for. But beyond it, or in sync with it something smoldered, something that called to her like the moon and the tide, natural and immovable. She took a step forward, voice soft with hope and fear.

“You promised to tell me what I want to know.” Solas inhaled slowly, almost seeming to tremble as she drew closer. “I want to know what that means.” He didn’t move away, upper body leaning closer even as he stood still, his hair falling over his shoulder as he looked down at her, robes glowing green in the light from the Breach, snow falling on deep brown skin, violet eyes never moving from her face. He saw the smile spread across her features, lighting her up like the moon or the sun, a cosmic glow that grew as gold eyes shimmered with emotion and the joy of a new discovery. “You will tell me, won’t you?” 

Umber fists clenched and unclenched, reaching for her just as she did him, their bodies meeting synchronously, natural and comforting and _right_ . Their lips met next, seeking each other out and they _kissed_ , pressed against one another, one of Solas’ hands moving to Isala’s waist, the other arm wrapping around her upper body to cradle the back of her neck and pull her even closer. She felt her knees buckle slightly and pulled away slightly to brace herself, but Solas stepped forward, placing one leg between her thighs to steady her, pressing into her to keep her standing. The motion sent a jolt through Isala’s body and she started, embarrassed but happy and unable to part from him. He pulled back for a moment, eyes still trained on Isala, as though observing her reaction. Full lips already kiss bruised, cheeks flushed with shyness and new sensations, eyes bright with unshed tears and elation, hair tousled by the wind and his fingers. He shook his head; he couldn’t, but how was he supposed to resist? When she was right there? When she was _right_? 

Solas’ mouth caught up hers again, deepening the kiss further and plying her lips open with his; breath so hot Isala felt as though she was being burned. He leaned her back, bending over so she wouldn't have to stand on her tiptoes, the leg between hers moving slightly and prompting a gasp from her. He chuckled, not pulling away, just holding her to him like someone who had caught a falling star. They kissed again, the Fade spinning around them, scenery shifting and changing as they embraced each other, moving against one another, unable to focus on anything but the taste and touch of the other. 

Isala snaked a hand over his chest, burrowing deeper in his arms, tracing his lower lip and chin with her fingers as they kissed. Solas shuddered slightly, his knee moving again, hand gripping her waist and pulling her closer still. For a moment Haven vanished, nothing but the lights behind Isala’s eyelids and the raw Fade, Solas’ gaze was intent on her face as she flinched with the pressure, the golden pools opening again to stare into violet, his lips curving up in a smile as he watched her, hand moving from her waist to her face, cupping it gently as he moved again and she shivered, shaking her head slightly, eyes watering, fingers buried in his clothing as if to push him away even as she pulled him closer. 

It wasn’t enough and it was too much all at once.

Solas stroked a tear away, feeling intensely the heat of her. He wanted to pull her even closer, press her against him, lose himself in her and--He pulled away, eyes still closed, shaking his head slightly, breath ragged, hands trembling around her waist. She looked up at him, dazed, gaze trusting and sincere, piercing through him. His voice was rough and lower than usual, gaze still intent on Isala.

“We shouldn’t. It isn’t right, not even here.” She stared up at him, head tilted in confusion. 

“Even here? Why...” Isala felt weak, she could barely stand, most of her weight supported by Solas’ grip on her, steadying her. He laughed softly, smiling down at her, a glint of mischief in his eyes.

“Where did you think we were?” She tried to compose herself, managing to give him a droll look. 

“I was distracted. I forgot that we aren’t...” She trailed off, unable to put it into words. He smiled, letting go of her and stepping back, palms out. 

“That is a matter of debate. Best discussed after you”

_Wake up._

Haven’s sky that had returned when the kiss ended warped and spun again, melting away as Isala opened her eyes, blinking heavily as she tried to discern dream from reality. Her eyes had already been open, hadn’t they? Waking was always difficult for her, the seams between dreaming and wakefulness hard to grasp. She tried to shift, but her body was too relaxed, her muscles still weak with sleep. White hair spilled over her shoulders, her earrings lukewarm against her flushed cheeks, legs tangled in something. She seemed to be lying on Solas’ couch, her furs on the floor a few feet away. Just as she decided to move to retrieve them, she noticed she wasn’t cold. In fact, she felt rather hot. Her cheek was pressed against something firm and warm that rose and fell beneath her, accompanied by the unmistakable steady rhythm of a heartbeat.

Slowly, Isala lifted her head to peer up from Solas’ chest where she lay on top of him, reclining on the couch on his back, long legs spread out under hers. His right hand covered his eyes, elbow raised as though he was still sleeping. Just as she moved to pull off of him his fingers parted, revealing violet eyes already open and twinkling with amusement and the burning heat she had seen and felt in the Fade. A drowsy smirk played across his lips and she felt his other hand shift on the small of her back as he spoke, voice husky with sleep and something else. 

“Sleep well?” His voice resonated in the pit of Isala’s stomach and she felt herself blush, the emotions and sensations flooding through her once again, almost as clear as when she had experienced them in their dream. She pushed herself up, moving to climb off of him as quickly as possible, trying not to tangle their legs as she did so. He propped himself up on an elbow and wrapped an arm around her waist, steadying her so she wouldn’t slip off of the sofa. 

“Careful, _lethallen_. I can’t let you fall, especially now that we’ve returned.” Isala felt herself blush again, remembering the feel of his body against hers, the emotions in his eyes, the passion in his voice, the meaning of his words--she tried to clear her mind, fingers splayed on his chest to push herself away slightly, signaling for him to let her go. Solas smiled at the rather futile rejection and swung his legs over the side of the couch, sitting up so he now held her in his lap.

Isala stood up quickly, trying to battle the amusement and embarrassment she felt by giving him a look, which he answered with a soft chuckle. She took a deep breath, bracing herself. Perhaps for other people these things could go unsaid, but she could not take that risk. Not with something like her heart. Not with him. 

“I’ve never done anything like that with someone before...in various meanings.” Another chuckle, this one sounded pleased, but was followed by a pause. The rustle of fabric behind her prompted Isala to look at Solas, who stood, pulling up his robe to cover his exposed arm, demeanor shifting to something more somber.

“I apologize. The kiss was impulsive and ill-considered...I should not have encouraged it.” She raised her eyebrows at him, both incredulous and confused. With what he had said and everything that had transpired between them in the year and months they had spent together, let alone what happened in the Fade, she had thought their feelings were mutual. The idea that they weren’t...Isala felt like the ground was falling beneath her feet, but in a very different way from what she experienced in the Fade. Her stomach and heart fell with it, pulse quickening and cheeks flushing with shame. _Had she been wrong_? Her throat was tight, breathing felt difficult, but she spoke.

“ _Irr’abelas_ . I had thought--” Isala stopped herself. If he held no feelings for her it was better to end it sooner rather than later. She had been prepared to give herself wholly to him, build a relationship together. If he felt nothing she could not understand _why_ he had kissed her or said what he did but...She swallowed her words. “ _Irr’abelas_ .” The strain in her voice was so frustrating; why could she not lie to him? But then again, why _should_ she lie?

“There is no cause for you to apologize, Isala, _I_ am the one who--” Solas stepped forward, his expression dismayed, some deeper pain in his eyes almost washed hers away. He raised his hands as though to hold her, but hesitated, resting them on the sides of her arms instead. His chest was only inches from Isala’s downturned eyes, her gaze fixed on the wolf’s jawbone pendant he wore. “It is not that I do not feel for you. I,” He let out a breath, almost seeming shaken, and she looked up, seeing the inner conflict betrayed for a moment on his features, umber skin flushed, dark brows furrowed, full lips open as though wishing to speak freely. She wished he would. He could tell her anything. Solas saw her watching him and gave a faint smile, speaking carefully. 

“It has been a long time, and things have always been... _easier_ for me in the Fade. I am not certain this is the best idea; it could lead to trouble. But...” Isala could understand his hesitation. It did not seem that different from her own. For her it was the first, for him perhaps the first in a long time. They were both putting themselves and each other at risk, let alone with the state of the world as it was. _And yet_...

“I am willing to take that chance, if you are.” She would leave it to him. If they started a relationship they would start it together. She needed him to be sure, as much for himself as for her. Solas stared into her eyes, the longing in his face made her heart ache. She wanted so badly to reach out again...how strange that she desired to touch someone to that extent. 

“I, may be, yes. If I could take a little time to think. There are...considerations.” Isala smiled softly, looking down again at his pendant. That was so like him. She couldn’t deny the disappointment she felt, but more than that her chest felt light with relief and hope that he had not refused, and that he _did_ have feelings for her. It was something she had never considered, never hoped for before but now, maybe...Isala reached out, breaching the distance to trace the jawbone hanging from his neck, fingers lingering over the pendant. 

“Take all the time you need. _Ar ame amahn_ . _Ar ju’melena_.” The leather beneath the jawbone moved heavily and Isala looked up at his expression again, seeing her relief reflected in him as well. Solas reached down to gently grasp her fingers, still holding the pendant.

“Thank you. I am not often thrown by what happens in dreams...” He shifted, a faint curve to his lips, as though remembering the moment they’d shared, before his eyes focused on her again, gaze intent. “But I am reasonably certain we are awake now. And if you wish to discuss anything, I would enjoy talking.” Isala considered this and nodded. As she moved to speak though, a sudden thought struck her. 

“To be clear, you’re the one who started with tongue.” Solas blinked in surprise, cheeks flushed. 

“I did no such thing!” She raised her eyebrows at him playfully. 

“Oh? Does it only count if it isn’t Fade-tongue?” He seemed to be searching for a response, ear tips and cheeks blushing a lovely russet. This was quite a refreshing switch for her. It was gratifying to see him flustered, and to be able to see his emotions so transparently. It was only fair. After all, because of his actions both within the Fade and the physical realm, Isala felt she would not be able to sleep soundly that evening.

Before Solas could successfully respond or give a rebuttal, Isala pulled her hand from his and walked back to the sofa, sitting down and pulling her legs up beside her, leaning against an arm of the couch and watching him, golden eyes gentle.

“Tell me more. Tell me about one of your journeys, _Fanor’len_.” His gaze softened and he smiled, moving to stand in front of her as he recounted his experiences. His lyrical speech and the magic he summoned to embellish the stories and provide her visuals were mesmerizing, her eyes never leaving him as he spoke animatedly. 

This was more. _He_ was more. And she wanted to know everything.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm repressed, don't judge me.
> 
> Elvish featured in text:  
> Ver’eth, inana mar shosaan (Be careful, watch your step)  
> Ma ane tarsul (You’re finished  
> Tel’telsila! Ar ema ea on...ar dir’vhen’an tel’itha (Don’t worry! I have been good...I promise I did not look)  
> henan? Nae, ‘dir’vhen’an,’ din ‘vhenan’ (Heart? No, ‘promise’ not ‘heart’)  
> Nae! Ar ame tel’tarsul! Ar nuvena (No! I’m not done! I want)  
> “Irr’abelas, Lethallen. Ma is ga sul min'nydha. Ju’ma ava sulrahn sul em? (I’m sorry my friend. That is all for tonight. Will you eat something for me?)  
> Sul ma, fenor’len? Ma nuvenin (For you, dear one? As you wish)  
> In elgar sa vir mana, tel’dru’ast somniar. Mya vir’revas lana, Ema val ahn ra sulevas. (Take the spirit from the long ago, do not sacrifice the dream. Follow the path that allows freedom, remember what it means.)  
> Suleval ahn (What does it mean)  
> Ma tel’dirtha Elvhenor (Do you not speak Elvish)  
> Vin. Ar nuvena eolasa (Yes. I want to know)  
> Ar ame amahn. Ar ju’melena (I am here. I will wait)  
> Fanor'len (Dear/precious one) *in a romantic sense


	9. CHAPTER IX: Viane Da'laven Viane Vhenan

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After the corruption and passing of his friend, Solas leaves to mourn on his own. But how can anyone truly mourn alone? Isala helps to ease the pain and the sorrow, offering respite and hope, and something new is borne from the heartache.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Viane Da'laven Viane Vhenan (Open Hands, Open Hearts)
> 
> \- Content warning for NSFW action between consenting adults!  
> \- Translations for Elvish are in the end notes  
> \- Again, there's a lot of Elvish (Like there is every chapter, my bad lol) so I recommend having the end notes  
> open in another window and looking at the translations as you read along :)

She was used to waiting. Isala had learned patience from a young age; some of the lessons that had driven it home were more painful than others. This type of waiting was the hardest, and she felt restless. Unable to sit still but unable to concentrate on tasks Isala sat in front of her loom, weaving as though in a trance despite her disquiet. She was seated on the balcony off of her chambers that sat above the battlements overlooking Skyhold; a space with a clear view of the gates. Her body thrummed with anxiety, fingers plucking anxiously at the threads, brow furrowed as she tried to concentrate. 

Several days had passed since they had failed to save Solas’ friend and she still felt the ache of guilt, grief, and sympathy from that day. She could still see him pacing anxiously in front of her asking for help, explaining his friend had been captured. Isala remembered his relief when she had immediately agreed to help, his gratitude when she asked him questions and listened to him speak about the spirit as they traveled to rescue them. The way dread had flooded his features when they saw the mangled and burned bodies, the desperation in his voice as he spoke despairingly, as though the words were ripped from his throat; _no no no_. The towering form of the demon, body curled inward as though to shield itself, roars that sounded more like cries, the pillars of the summoning circle lashing out and sparking with biting pain to bind it, exhausted human mages that spoke of things they barely knew anything about. The rage he had shown had surprised Isala, but she could not blame him. The ignorance that had twisted and tormented his friend was reprehensible. Their combined knowledge and tactics had successfully freed his friend and yet...

_You helped me, now you must endure. Guide me into death._

His quiet acceptance had been heartbreaking. No bargaining, no pleading. Rippling magic echoed out from fingers that almost seemed to tremble, head bowed in grief, pain turned to rage when her words could not soothe him. She could not forget the anguish she had seen in his eyes as he bore down on the human mages, somehow towering over them despite the distance he kept between himself and the group. His voice, hoarse and accusatory, almost seemed to echo. Violet eyes burned to the point they seemed to glow, his mouth curled almost in a snarl. It was not her place to stop him. It was not her pain. Isala’s own voice, quiet, had called out to him gently, coaxing him back once Solas had finished, his shoulders sinking, face turned down. His deep, distant silence was followed by a voice heavy with grief. A few words had been exchanged between them, and then he had left Isala. She had expected him back by that evening but he had not returned. Hours had passed, then days. Still she had waited; a situation all too familiar, in the worst of ways. 

Even when scouring the Fade she could not find more than whispers of him, his presence like a murmur carried on the wind; enough for her to feel it but out of earshot. Isala had asked various spirits who were willing to communicate and help to tell her if he drew near, and it seemed that had been the right choice. As she combed through the threads and arranged the next line in the pattern she felt a tug and glanced up sharply, throat catching. 

Solas was coming back. 

Isala forced her fingers to resume, closing her eyes and taking a deep breath to calm herself. The relief he had not abandoned her made her strength fade and her hands faltered. When he was closer another spirit called, a wisp materializing in her room and gesturing to the gate before dissipating. She would need to thank them and see what she could offer in return, but at that moment the only thought occupying her mind was that _he_ had returned. Isala stood quickly, carefully wrapping up her loom and putting it away, exiting her quarters at a brisk pace, so fast it was almost a jog. 

When she saw his figure silhouetted in the mouth of the Skyhold gate it was almost as though he was being swallowed; the stone arch a mouth set to consume him. The defeated grief in his posture tore at her with a pain and desire she had not felt in...Isala shook her head. What mattered was that he was back. But even so, that wasn’t the end. _Was this return permanent, or..._? Solas walked slowly towards her, somewhere between purposeful and hesitant, as though he was both determined to return and afraid of doing so. She walked down the steps at an even pace, never taking her eyes from him, meeting him halfway. His hair was tied back, furs ruffled by the mountain winds, russet skin wan tense, but he appeared physically unscathed. Solas’ eyes were downcast, face angled down as though in guilt along with grief. He stopped in front of Isala, looking up to meet her gaze where she stood a few steps above him, the height giving her the advantage of being eye level with him for once.

“ _Ma garem arla’vhenas_ .” Solas cocked his head to the side, violet eyes dark with emotion, watching her as she looked into him. She came down another step, coming closer to him. He closed his eyes as she breached the distance, fingers outstretched to touch his cheek, almost close enough to touch the skin before she withdrew her hand. _Not yet_. “How do you fare?” 

“It hurts. It always does.” His voice was hoarse with pain and he shifted on his feet, as though fighting the urge to escape. “But I will survive.” 

Isala watched him, searching his face for something more, but it was shuttered; grief overwriting anything else he might have shown her. “ _Ma serannas_.” Solas’ brow furrowed slightly, slight frustration accompanying the confusion. He did not understand, so she explained. “For surviving, for helping your friend, for coming back.” His face softened, the lines of sorrow smoothing as he spoke again, voice and gaze gentle. 

“You are true to your word, _Lethallen_. And to me. You did everything within your power to help. I could hardly abandon you now.” Hearing those words and seeing his expression open, Isala finally fell full into relief, closing the final stretch of distance and reaching out to grasp Solas’ hands, which raised in answer to meet hers. 

“Where have you been? Did you seek them out?” He looked down at their interlaced fingers, speaking quietly, voice still low with emotion. 

“I found a quiet spot and went to sleep. I visited the place in the Fade where my friend used to be.” She squeezed his fingers without meaning to, eyes full of hope, the sight of which made him smile sadly. “It is empty. But there are stirrings of energy in the void; someday something new may grow there.” Isala looked down in disappointment. She had known that it was more likely the spirit had not survived but she had still hoped...for his sake as much as the spirit’s. Wisdom was rare and precious, and they had been Solas’ friend. Her eyes filled with heat but she blinked the tears back; she would not cry. He was already grieving, she could not distract him or divert the energy he already struggled to divert to comforting himself, not when she so desperately wished to ease things for him. Isala raised her head, lashes wet, but gaze steady and still hopeful.

“The energy of spirits returns to the Fade, yes? So is your friend truly gone, or might they someday...?” Solas smiled despite the pain that still rested in his eyes, raising a hand to brush away the droplets that lingered on her lashes. 

“As you say, death isn’t the same as it is for mortals. If the idea giving the spirit form is strong, or if the memory has shaped other spirits, it may someday rise again...but a spirit’s natural state is peaceful semi-existence. It is rare to be able to reflect reality. Something similar may reform one day but it might have a different personality...” His fingers tensed in hers, gaze steady on hers, violet seeming almost to ripple, voice low. “It would likely not remember me. It would not be the friend I knew.” Isala clasped his hands gently, resisting the overwhelming instinct to hold him, pull him close to her, ease his pain and the burden he carried. But she couldn’t, it was not the right time, nor the right place. And it was not what he was ready for, she could sense that. She withdrew a hand from his and pulled at his shoulder, bringing his head down and leaning her forehead against his.

“ _U’ebala tel’nadas_.” Solas let out a shuddering breath, voice low and soft. 

“It’s been so long since I could trust someone. But you...” He paused, stopping himself. “I will work on it. _Ma serannas_.” They stood there for a moment, foreheads pressed together, left hands still with fingers interwoven; a moment of peace and shared grief in the busy fortress. She drew back first, gazing into his face to see it open; his anguish still clear, but the walls he had put up again had lowered. 

“Come, _fenor’len_ , let us find you some peace.” She stepped back, pulling his hand gently and drawing him through the hall back to her quarters, Solas following silently behind her as the hall’s occupants politely averted their gazes, appearing occupied. Isala led him up the steps and opened the door to her rooms before motioning for Solas to sit on the cushions she had left out at the foot of the bed. He hesitated, but sat carefully, assuming a cross-legged position on the pillows, back straight. _Tel’on_ , he needed to unwind, let _loose_ the pain inside, not internalize his grief and keep it hidden. He said he had mourned, but no one finished mourning alone. It only festers left untouched and yet...she could not force it. No more than she could force a tree to re-root after being torn from the earth, not without magic or consent, at least. Not without touching it. He was open, at least, she needed only to draw him out.

“If you wish to be alone, Skyhold has many niches, but almost any could be intruded upon. But here,” Isala gestured to the room as she walked, “people rarely come here, and will not if I ask them to stay away.” She moved to the chair by her desk where a wolf pelt was thrown over the back. She retrieved it and placed it over Solas. He hesitated, as though he wanted to protest the comfort or move to leave, but then his demeanor changed slightly; limbs relaxing, posture loosening. Her eyes lingered on his hands, fingers going lax in his lap as he looked down at them before back to her. 

“I...am grateful for the privacy, and for allowing me into your space.”

She gave him a gentle look. “ _Ma esahn emma, mar la’var tas_ . I will be back, wait here.” She turned, walking down the stairs and into her gardens to retrieve the tea set and water as well as a bowl of dried flowers and herbs. When she returned, walking up the steps to her room, she saw Solas standing by the banister, furs still over his shoulders, a lost look in his eyes, as though he had been waiting for her. He almost seemed _young_ ; unbalanced and unsure. When he saw her and the tea set she carried, his lips curved upwards slightly, shaking his head, braid falling over his shoulders as he did so. 

“I detest the stuff, unless it’s made by you.” He gave a soft laugh, a slight twist to his expression, as though lamenting something. “What will become of me?” Isala smiled in return, chest warming at his words, though his expression tugged at her. 

“ _Ar ju’heem ra sul ma, tel’telsila fanor’len_.” Something in his eyes...it looked almost pleading, as though he wished to speak but couldn’t summon the words. Was this grief as well? Isala gestured for Solas to return to the cushions and he obliged, resuming his position, gaze following her as she moved to brew the tea. The rich scent of herbs wafted through the chambers, melding with the clear mountain air and the scent of cedar as Isala lit the fireplace with a flick of her fingers, gaze still focused on the tea she prepared. 

Once finished, she carried the set over to Solas, kneeling and placing it on the ground before him. On it sat small cakes drizzled with honey in a dish beside the tea set. He gave a wry smile and Isala returned it, her voice soft but firm. “Grief is exhausting, you need to eat, and drink.” He looked down at the plate again, thinking it would be hard to summon his appetite, but his body betrayed him; stomach twisting with hunger. When was the last time he had eaten...? As he ate, his eyes caught on another item on the tray; a ceramic bowl filled with familiar looking herbs...his gaze shot to Isala, surprised. 

She smiled, looking amused. “I am a dreamer, remember? The Dalish strive to preserve the old ways. These herbs are known to make it easier to slip into dreaming, those like us especially so. With the herbs the transition will be gentler.” Solas nodded, still looking lost, his shoulders low, as though they carried an incredible weight. Isala wanted to stay, to comfort him, speak with him, hold him close and ease his mind, his pain, his sorrow. But she didn’t want to push him; didn’t want to ask too much too soon. They were close, they had feelings for one another, she was fairly certain, but that did not mean she had a right to disrupt his method of grieving, even if it was out of a desire to help him. She braced herself, almost physically swaying with the effort it took for her to stand, Solas’ eyes following her as she did so. Isala looked at him, gaze soft. 

“I will not pry, nor push you, _fanor’len_. You have your own way of mourning and I don’t want to intrude. I will make it known the chambers are not to be disturbed. And if you need me, I--” His hand shot out, long fingers grasping at her unmarked hand, holding her sleeve more than her wrist. 

His face when he looked up at her; Solas was surprised as she was. His grip on her slackened but he did not pull away, some internal conflict warring in his eyes as his lips parted to speak, but nothing came out. He almost seemed like a child, unable to curb this instinctive desire to keep her there. Isala turned her body back towards him, her voice low and gentle. “I will not leave if you do not wish it, Solas. I will stay with you, readily.” _Happily_ . He did not speak, gaze searching her face as though trying to find an answer in her, or in himself. As though weighing his options or trying to decipher something; _what did he want? What did he need?_

After a moment he spoke, voice soft and deeper than usual, the uncertainty still weighing in his eyes, but a sliver of understanding now accompanied it. “I would prefer it if you stay, Isala, please.” She did not hesitate, moving to kneel beside Solas again, closer this time, his hand still on her wrist, grip warm but loose, as though waiting to be shaken off. 

As if she ever would. 

They sat in silence for a moment before Isala spoke, voice soft, golden eyes gentle. “What will ease your suffering _fanor’len_? Do you wish to sleep? Even if they are no longer there and they will not be the same, you can still trace the memories and recount the joy, even as you mourn the loss.” Solas’ lips curved upwards again, though his gaze was heavy with grief. 

“I have, or I thought I had. It has been some time, and so much has happened. So much has been lost. I have always dealt with these things on my own. I am...” He trailed off, gaze distant, focused on something, or somewhere, else. She coaxed him gently, leaning closer to look into his face. 

“You are what, Solas?” He didn’t answer, eyes falling back to his hands that were now clenched in his lap, russet knuckles turning light with the tension of his grip. She reached out, fingers gently grasping his, soothing the strain of his tendons and stroking his hands softly. “You are what? Tired? In pain? Afraid?” He chuckled, as though to say he was too old or too mature for such things, or amused at how easily she pulled his vulnerabilities free; laying him bare and open. A moment of silence lapsed as Isala tried to discern his expression, then finally he answered, his voice low and almost hoarse.

“Alone.” The word was like a blade in her chest. Said with such finality it resonated as though it were fact, as though he felt it in his very essence. It was a heavy and condemning word. It was not true. Isala moved without thinking, her arms wrapping around his broad shoulders and drawing him to her, cradling his head on her chest as she spoke, words escaping her like the tears she had held back before.

“ _Ma ane din’u, Solas. Ar ame i ma, ar ju’tel’vara ma_ .” _Ar lath ma_. Isala couldn’t voice the last words but she felt them, deeply and irrevocably. Solas was still, hesitating in her embrace before he relaxed, turning his face into her collarbone and wrapping his arms around her in turn. Her usually cool skin was warm, her fingers firm in her grip on him, gentle but tethering, as though to prove she was there with him; that he was not alone. 

Solas could not say anything. Not when the truth threatened to spill from him like wine from an overflowing cup. Not when he couldn’t summon half truths or riddles to distract. Not when he wanted her to know everything and yet couldn’t bear the thought of her knowing. They sat there together, locked in the anchoring embrace; too close and yet not close enough. They did not move to part even as Solas lit the herbs cradled in the ceramic, the fire flashing green for a moment. Their aged scent deepened before transforming into something sweet and refreshing that cloyed around them as the pair slipped into dreaming.

In the Fade they were parted from each other, but together. They moved slowly through the memories Solas shaped, taking their time. He recounted conversations and lessons with Wisdom, laughing occasionally at some quip or debate he recalled before his expression grew somber; the longing in his eyes pulled at Isala as though it would rip her open. 

As Solas retraced their memories and he and Isala spoke, he felt something inside him lifting. The pain that had clawed at him and weighed on his heart like a mountain seemed to ease back; like the tide receding from the shore, beckoned by that calling of the moon. She listened to him. Isala didn’t push, didn’t press or ask more than he was willing to share. He felt odd. _Safe_ , as though he wanted to tell her everything. But he couldn’t. Could he? Not with what was at stake. 

He had kept her waiting for weeks since their journey to the Fade but now...Solas wasn’t sure what he wanted. Or maybe he was, and that’s what made him hesitate. But what he may or may not have known...everything in him seemed to pull at him, showing him despite the uncertainty, he knew what he needed. It was a pull that felt so natural and so strong he wasn’t sure how much longer he could resist. And should he? Did he have to? It was for them, all for them and what they had lost, what he had destroyed while desperately trying to save, and yet--

Perhaps there was hope after all. Perhaps he did not have to punish himself to right the wrongs of his past. Perhaps he could be happy despite it all. Perhaps he could change things as _he_ had changed.

Perhaps there was another way...

Solas settled back in the moment as his gaze was drawn to Isala, staring up at the memory he shared: Wisdom recounting forgotten secrets, glowing form waxing and waning before those unwavering golden eyes. Golden eyes that turned to look at him the way she always did; as though looking into the deepest part of himself, capable of seeing everything. He had felt wary of that gaze at first but now...

He wanted her to see.

Gradually they eased out of dreaming, walking the last memories as they shifted back into wakefulness. Solas’ sorrow still ached but it had eased, the pain muted like a wound that had begun to heal. When they woke they were leaning back against the cushions at the foot of Isala’s bed, her eyes still closed but lashes fluttering, brown skin glowing in the gentle light emanating from the fireplace, white hair splayed on the rich colors of the pillows, her marked hand laying on Solas’ chest above his heart. _His heart..._

Isala shifted slightly, eyes opening to look again into Solas, smiling upon seeing the furrow between his brows had eased; his face and gaze softer than it had been before. “ _Erathe son’ast_?” He smiled at her mimicry of his words from before and sat up slowly, standing up and offering a hand to help her to her feet. She tilted her head curiously but took his hand and stood before following him to the balcony where he walked slightly ahead of her, hair falling freely over his shoulders, furs slightly mussed from sleep, his back to her.

“What were you like? Before the anchor? Has it affected you?” He turned to face her, cold mountain wind blowing his hair around him as Isala drew her furs closer around her, confused at his questions. “Changed you in any way? Your mind? Your morals? Your,” Solas looked down for a moment, hesitating slightly before meeting her eyes again, gaze intent. “Spirit?” She could see the question meant a great deal to him, but still a smile tugged at her lips and she cocked her head at him, eyebrows raised. 

“Of course the anchor has affected me. As for changing me...if it had, would I have noticed? Would anyone? We are always changing, cataclysmic events and mysterious marks or no.” Solas smiled, conceding. 

“That’s an excellent point.” Isala waited for him to continue, her eyes asking the question she didn’t voice. His gaze softened further and his expression shifted to one of sincerity, once again his eyes moved elsewhere, as though he struggled to articulate his thoughts. _Preciously rare_.

“You show a wisdom and awareness I have not seen since,” He paused, as though stopping himself, raising his gaze to meet Isala’s again. “Since my deepest journeys into the ancient memories of the Fade. You are...not what I expected.” Isala laughed softly, putting her hands behind her back and linking her fingers to mirror Solas’ usual posture. She drew closer to him, golden pools alight with amusement and curiosity. 

“ _Ma serannas_ , I think. But what did you expect? What have I done that was so unusual? So out of the realm of what you had foreseen?” 

The corners of Solas’ mouth twitched upwards at her mirroring and the phrasing of her questions. She had no grasp of how poignant her questions were. He answered her earnestly. “You have shown...subtlety in your actions. A wisdom that I had thought goes against everything I expected from--during, this time. In so many ways you have proven me wrong, and in so many ways we have proven each other right, together. The Dalish are not what I had thought. And that they could raise one such as you, that they could survive and continue to resist and restore what was lost, that I could be so wrong about them...I misjudged them. And you, and many others.” 

He let out a soft chuckle, something heavy lurking behind the violet of his eyes. “Perhaps even myself.” Solas stopped for a moment, his gaze fixed on something in the distance, gaze intent. “This knowledge I have gained during my time here, of my own fallibility, has been both a blessing and a dilemma. Having one’s preconceptions uprooted and refuted is jarring and yet,” He took in a slow deep breath, eyes on Isala, expression soft and open, the sorrow in his face overwritten by something that shone brighter, enough to soften the edges of pain. “And yet I am grateful to have been wrong. A paradox, perhaps, but the truth all the same. I am grateful to have been able to learn. To be able to continue learning, and to know the truth. To know _you_.” 

The last words made her breathless, landing gently on her ears with a tenderness that almost made Isala sway where she stood. Seeing the emotion in his eyes, feeling her own rising in her chest as though they could no longer be contained she wanted to... _to what_ ? She couldn’t place it. Isala took a step closer again, gaze open and hopeful as she stared up into Solas’ face while he continued, voice soft. “Many people still act with so little understanding of the world, and so little desire to understand. But not you, you wish to know it all, and to understand. Seeing that in you it is...familiar. Comforting. Fascinating. And it gives me, _you_ give me, hope.” 

Isala couldn’t even discern whether her heart was beating too quickly or too slowly, she almost felt as though she were floating, his words lifting her spirit to soar in the air, untethered. Like the brilliance of sunlight after the passing of an eclipse, everything changing and beginning again; transforming into something familiar and yet completely unknown. “What does this mean, Solas?” She didn’t speak the other question that still kept her rooted; _what does this mean for us_?

“It means I have not forgotten the kiss.” He took a step closer, arms at his sides, shoulders squared as he looked down at Isala, still mimicking his usual posture, her eyes wide, lips curving up in a soft smile. He leaned forward, almost swaying, as though drawn in by that golden gaze never leaving his. But Solas stopped, hesitating again, and drew back, angling his body away slightly as he took a deep, shuddering breath, as though struggling with some internal conflict. Isala’s hope wavered for a moment and she reached out to touch his arm gently, her voice quiet and almost pleading. 

“Solas, _nua mar’ahn_ ?” This time it was Isala who hesitated as his body leaned towards her, as though he wanted to turn back, but his face stayed angled away. “ _Tel’vara_.” Her voice was more raw than she’d intended and Solas turned back, expression dismayed at the plea in her words and the undercurrent of pain she couldn’t hide. He took another step inward, closer to her, bending down until his face was inches from her as he pressed his forehead to hers. 

“I can’t. It might be kinder in the long run, but losing you would...” Solas interrupted himself as he closed the distance. His lips met Isala’s, gently and softly kissing her before deepening; plying her lips open and wrapping his arms around her. He held her to him and pressed himself into her as though to merge their bodies together, ground them in each other. Isala responded in kind, every fiber of her being singing with the rightness of their contact, of what his words meant, of their togetherness in this moment; inseparable and natural and perfect. Solas’ arms held her around her waist as he pressed her hips against his, moving with one another. He lifted a hand to trace up her spine and catch the back of her neck, angling her head to deepen their kiss. A soft sound escaped her lips before she could stop herself and her knees buckled. He laughed against her mouth, breath ticklish and sweet against her tongue. 

Despite the cold mountain air Isala felt warm and giddy, drunk on this newfound knowledge and the feel of his touch, his _true_ touch. When Solas pulled away slightly, their lips parting, she felt unbalanced, as though something that should be there was now missing. But he steadied her again, sepia skin glowing in the sunlight, cheeks flushed, staring into her eyes. When he spoke again, violet burned with emotion, his expression almost fiercely tender.

“ _Ar lath ma, vhenan_.” 

_Vhenan_ . _Vhenan_ . He had called her _vhenan_ . Again elation rose in Isala’s chest, feeling almost as though it lifted her up as she stood on her toes to wind her arms around his neck, eyes shining over bright with joy and unshed tears, her expression pure euphoria. “ _Ma sa’lath! Ma ane ma’vhenan. Telir ma_ .” She moved a hand to trace Solas’ cheek, voice softening to a reverent murmur, gaze full of wonder. “ _Telir ma._ ” 

Solas shook his head weakly, pulling her even closer and holding her to him, his face buried in her neck as they held one another. He breathed in the scent of fresh herbs and warm fur, her bare skin glowing in the sunlight and glorious against his own. As they embraced, Isala continued to murmur to him in Elvish, the words leaving her lips subconsciously, like water that could no longer be held back; emotions all brought to bear. He pulled back again and cradled her face in his hands, her eyes open and trusting, lips kiss-swollen, cheeks flushed and hair falling over the light brown skin of her shoulders like water. “ _Ga sul ma, ma’vhenan_.” 

When their lips met again it was the melding of natural forces; a full surrender to the magnetism between them. Holding her like this, knowing it could last, it was intoxicating. No matter how close they pulled one another it was never close enough. Isala only noticed they had made their way back into her chambers from the balcony when Solas pushed her back onto the bed; kisses deep and encompassing enough to make her breathless. Her furs slid off the bed as he discarded his own mantle and the band over his chest, obstacles removed so they could press even closer. His skin was hot against hers as he slid his fingers over her collarbone and shoulders, tracing gently as though to memorize the landscape of her body. 

Isala shuddered at his touch, embarrassment overwritten by her desire to be even closer, to feel him even more. Her own hands reached out, as though by instinct, to wrap in his hair and pull him to her, her back arching as Solas’ hand moved to her throat to caress the sensitive skin there; other arm holding her hips to his, moving slowly but firmly against her. Isala luxuriated in the heat of him against her, a burning that seemed to sear into her core, her eyes closed as she savored everything about him. Solas traced her jawline gently and she let out another soft sound, eyes opening to look at him. She blushed when she realized he was watching her, something like wonder mixed in the heat of his gaze as he hovered above her to see her as he moved his leg between hers, pressing into her and smiling when her back curved again, hips lifting without her meaning to. 

Dazed and swept away by his kisses Isala couldn’t remember when Solas’ hand had slid lower, long fingers hot against her inner thigh as though they might burn through the fabric. When his hand slipped beneath the waist of her breeches she gasped, torn between the instinct to move away and the desire to press against him. At the feel of her heat against his fingers Solas let out a hoarse breath, catching her up in a kiss again, pressing into her as she twisted, head tilted back. Her hands fell from the back of his neck to his chest as though to push him away, but instead pulled him closer, stroking his abdomen as she sighed into his kiss. 

He shuddered at her touch and moved his fingers in kind, eliciting a moan that he drank in like a man immersing himself in an oasis in a desert. He wanted it to last forever, draw it out, explore her slowly and yet the desire to touch her, to know everything at that moment and lose himself in her was so intense...Solas’ thoughts were interrupted when she pressed her leg against him, golden eyes expectant and unguarded, waiting for him and anticipating this new discovery of sensations, her chest moving quickly with the intensity. He lowered his face to her neck and kissed it, grazing the area with his teeth and smiling against the mark he made as she gasped. He traced her skin to the space above her breasts, lips brushing against her chest as her hands dropped to his hips, pulling them closer to hold him against her and-- 

A series of soft knocks sounded at the door to Isala’s chambers. The noise barely even registered with her the first time, but Solas raised his head from her chest, one hand still between her legs, the other wrapped around her back and tracing the skin around the side of her chest. She shivered and he looked back down at her, lips curved upward in a gentle but almost teasing smile, gaze tender. He seemed to hesitate for a moment, as though considering the option of ignoring whoever was knocking and continuing. The rapping came again, however, and Josephine’s voice sounded behind the wooden door, friendly but pitched high with muted urgency.

“Inquisitor Lavellan? Isala? I’m terribly sorry to disturb your rest, but it would seem the others who will be in attendance for the ball at the Winter Palace are available for rehearsal. It is a rare thing that we can all be in attendance, so if it is not too convenient for you, and we can find Master Solas, then it would be a most opportune time for further preparation.” 

_Fenedhis_. It most certainly was not convenient, nor was it opportune. Finding Solas would not be a problem, but catching her breath and regaining decorum would. Nonetheless Isala couldn’t fault Josephine, nor could she deny that another opportunity for the inner circle to practice together would likely not happen enough times again for her to deny the ambassador this chance. She let out a soft groan and Solas slid his russet fingers from the heat between her legs, enjoying her reaction as she bit her lip and closed her eyes. He leaned down to kiss her slowly, parting her lips with his again and breathing her in before drawing away, retrieving their furs and handing Isala hers, smiling as he watched her take slow, deep breaths to center herself again. 

Solas stood and put his fur mantle and leather band on once again, readjusting the sash around his waist, being careful how it laid. She sighed as she re-settled her own clothing, body feeling light and sensitive, the lingering intensity echoing. Isala wasn’t sure how she would be able to keep anything straight after this, not drunk on their confirmed mutual feelings and the new sensations she’d experienced. She sighed, releasing the tension, and murmured a curse under her breath. “ _Fen’Harel ver em_.” 

Violet eyes shot to her face and Solas’ expression shifted to one of surprise, then he laughed. “ _I_ would be happy to. But not this time, it would seem. Come, _vhenan_. Would you rather I leave once you have both gone? Or shall we go together.” Isala blushed at his response but smiled. He had asked, but it wasn’t a question, not to her. She felt oddly shy now the moment had passed, but had it? The heat remained in her cheeks, blood feeling too close to her skin, lips raw from their kisses, the mark on her neck and her hips both throbbing even more than the anchor on her hand. 

She walked over to where he stood by the banister, reaching out to him as he raised his own hands in answer. She held them palm up in her own and bowed her face to plant a kiss in his open hands. It was a custom of Clan Lavellan, “ _Sul’ema or sal_ ,” the passing of the soul. It was an action reserved for life partners, and she had done it without thinking. But it had felt right, _was_ right. He might not know the full significance of the gesture but Solas’ gaze softened again, feeling what it meant. He raised his hands to cup Isala’s face and pressed their foreheads together, stepping closer. If they left the room together now it might be obvious what they had been doing. But was there any need to hide it? She shifted her head to look at him, tracing his lips gently and smiling up at Solas. 

“ _Saron_.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm repressed, please do not judge me, I promise I am cringing so much harder than anyone who reads this. In fact, no one perceive me, do not think of or refer to me, I am climbing into a box.  
> Next chapter we're heading to the Winter Palace, and things will get steamier if I can fistfight my repression. Whether that's a good thing or a bad thing is up to you.
> 
> Elvish featured in-text:  
> Ma garem arla’vhenas (You came back)  
> U’ebala tel’nadas (You do not have to mourn alone)  
> Fenor'len (precious one; neutral/platonic)  
> Tel'on (No good)  
> Ma esahn emma, mar la’var tas (What’s mine is yours as long as you want it)  
> Fanor'len (precious one; romantic)  
> Ar ju’heem ra sul ma, tel’telsila fanor’len (I will make it for you, do not worry precious one)  
> Ma ane din’u, Solas. Ar ame i ma, ar ju’tel’vara ma (You are not alone, Solas. I am with you, I will not leave you)  
> Erathe son’ast (Sleep well)  
> Nua mar'ahn (What troubles you)  
> Tel'vara (Don't go)  
> Ma sa’lath! Ma ane ma’vhenan. Telir ma. (My one love! You are my heart. Only you.)  
> Ga sul ma, ma’vhenan (It is all for you, my heart)  
> Fen'Harel ver em (Fen'Harel take me)  
> Saron (together)


	10. CHAPTER X: Ghi’my’alen, Ghi’mi’yem

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Preparations for Isala and the Inquisition's entrance to the Winter Palace are almost complete. In the days before they attend the Empress of Orlais' ball and change the history of the Dales forever, the inner circle is hosted at Duke Gaspard's villa. Upon being invited to dinner with the advisors, Isala must come face-to-face with one of the major representatives of all that is wrong with Orlesian noble society, and her patience and restraint are put to the test.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ghi’my’alen, Ghi’mi’yem (The Hunter, The Hunted)
> 
> Content warning for a piece of shit canon character misgendering and being racist and fetishizing.  
> Also a warning for *consensual nsfw* in the latter part of this chapter!  
> Translations for Elvish are in the end notes.

With the last pearl sewn into the hide cloak Isala sighed, leaning back in her chair and closing her eyes. Her temples pounded with exhaustion, and the stress of the viper’s pit they would be walking into in only a day certainly didn’t help to ease the tension. Behind her she heard the shifting of fabric as Solas stood and walked over to where she sat, his movement across the floor almost soundless. Isala tilted her head back to look up at him and saw him gazing down at her, a faint smile on his lips but concern in his eyes. 

“Are you alright? I see you have finished.” He considered the mantle she had placed on the desk in front of her, pearls and shell lining glinting in the soft candlelight like stars, and shook his head slightly, voice soft with awe. “Beautiful. Your skill and the craft of our people is impressive indeed. I am looking forward to seeing you wear it.” Isala’s cheeks warmed and she gave a soft hum, reaching out a hand to finger the smooth soft hide, pleased with her handiwork despite the apprehension she felt. 

“I’m grateful Josephine and Vivienne agreed to me crafting my own formal wear, rather than insisting I wear something that would have erased me.” She offered a wry smile, but there was sadness behind her eyes. “I think the ambassador, like the other advisors, still regrets how they handled things by making me Inquisitor.” 

_Good_. Solas thought it, but did not speak it. Isala was a good leader, but it was not by her choice that she had become one, and the manner in which it had happened still made his stomach twist. The memory of her standing at the top of the stairs, eyes bright with terror, fear and confusion on her face as though staring at a knife in her back. The conversation that had taken place among the group in hushed whispers as she desperately negotiated and questioned; Leliana’s muted look of dismay carefully angled away from the people below, Cassandra’s expression one of bewilderment and frustration as she hissed to Isala that it was a boon she should be honored by, and it was too late to turn back. 

There was no one else. 

Then there were the masses of people who worshipped and followed her who named and invoked her as though to drain her of everything, even her identity. He knew what it was like to be forged into a leader; it so often had nothing to do with the will of the one who would come to lead. Still, he was grateful she was a capable and compassionate leader, and proud of her as well. Interrupting his thoughts, Isala frowned and pressed her fingers against her brows, as though in pain. “Headache?” 

She sighed again and nodded, eyes closed. Solas reached his hands up to lean her head back again, the warmth of his fingers cooling as he concentrated his mana into a gentle healing spell, easing the pain as he massaged her temples softly. Isala let out a satisfied sound and Solas smiled, leaning down to kiss her forehead as the spell finished, his fingers sliding from her temple to her jaw as she opened her eyes and smiled at him, reaching a hand up to pull him in for a kiss. 

As their lips met a knock sounded at the door and the pair paused, closing their eyes synchronously in frustration. “I feel as though something like this has happened before.” Isala laughed at Solas’ comment and straightened in her chair before standing up to walk to the door. 

Several weeks had passed since they had last been interrupted, but everything had been happening so quickly the time that had passed was almost a blur. Rehearsals and preparations for the inner circle’s journey to Halamshiral and their attendance at the ball at the Winter Palace had taken up much of their time, and the time they could spend alone had been sparse. Besides the pointed looks, knowing grins, and the coins that had exchanged hands once Solas and Isala had arrived to rehearsal together, there had been little time to celebrate or really sink into their new relationship. 

Despite the fact that their relationship had changed, the shift was a natural transition. They had known each other for over a year, and since they had grown closer and their friendship had formed, the air between them had long since shifted. Their feelings for each other being voiced mostly meant they no longer needed to hold back, nor question. The newfound joy of sharing mutual feelings and being able to reach out to one another and be together as they pleased, at least as much as time allowed, was still intoxicating. The elation had not faded.

The time they were able to spend alone together, however, had. Various matters required their attention, and Isala in particular was again in high demand as preparations were made. The hour they had spent in the same room before this interruption was the first they had been able to spend truly alone with one another in weeks. But even that time had been taken up by Isala taking care of finishing touches for her regalia and assisting Solas in deciphering missives written in coded Elvish. Even now that those tasks were over, another interruption had come. 

Josephine was standing outside the door when Isala opened it, looking slightly apologetic for disturbing them. “I am terribly sorry to interrupt, Inquisitor, but Duke Gaspard has decided to insist upon your attendance and that of the other advisors for dinner this evening. I explained to him that we are all busy preparing, but as he is hosting us, I could not reject him outright at that time.” Josephine’s steady gray gaze told Isala that she would if needed, however. But Isala sighed and shook her head. They could not afford to set off Gaspard, not when he was hosting them at his villa as well as helping them enter the Winter Palace. A man like the duke who had excessive and fragile pride accompanied by so many biases was easily set off, meaning they all needed to act carefully; as much as it grated her nerves to even consider being polite to someone like him.

“I understand. We cannot risk him losing patience with us, or losing sight of the importance of this albeit temporary alliance. I will attend but...what about the others? Will our companions not be in attendance?” Josephine’s lips pursed and she raised her eyebrows slightly, voice tight with annoyance. 

“His grace did not request the presence of anyone outside of the advisors, and yourself. The others are welcome to attend, but most of them are indisposed or uninterested.” Her tone changed then, phasing into exasperated amusement. “The Iron Bull and Sera are both out drinking at a local pub with sir Blackwall and master Tethras. Lady Cassandra is training and not presentable, Cole would be...not well suited even if we could find him. Lastly, Dorian is attending a soiree with Madame Vivienne leaving only Master Solas unoccupied, and the rest of us to accompany the duke.” Josephine hesitated then, her expression dark. “He was most insistent on _your_ attendance, however.” 

Isala pushed down the instinct to shudder, repulsed by what this likely meant. Duke Gaspard was well known for his loathsome views of women and people of other genders, as well as other races, as well as for his general prejudice and abhorrent values. She did not want to spend any more time with him than necessary, and knew any request for her presence was not out of genuine curiosity or care, and she would not be met with respect. But what choice did she have? The duke might insist that he hated the Orlesian Game and complain of etiquette and customs, but still he pulled and tugged at the strings like an impulsive and cruel child who wished to twist people like marionettes to satisfy his whim. She supposed he was suitably selfish for a human man of nobility.

As Isala told Josephine she would come, Solas walked up behind Isala, the back of her head brushing his chest as she glanced up at him to see why he approached. “Might I be allowed to attend as well, lady ambassador?” Josephine’s eyes widened in surprise but she nodded slowly, a flicker of understanding in her eyes, as she smiled knowingly. 

“Very good, master Solas. What harm could there be in having another companion accompany us, let alone one so knowledgeable.” As the Antivan woman turned to go get ready she hesitated, looking back at the pair of elves standing in the doorway. “This may not be as high stakes as the ball at the Winter Palace, but just as it will be there, our every move and every word must be carefully considered beforehand. Take care, and we will all make it through this unscathed.” She nodded to them and walked briskly down the hall, the golden fabric of her skirts swaying and shimmering in the light from the candelabras. Solas and Isala could barely exchange words before servants knocked on the closed door again, having been requested by Josephine to help them each get ready for the meal with Duke Gaspard. 

Isala gently refused their offers to apply heavy makeup or fit her into a corset, and coldly rejected their suggestions of covering her vallaslin with powder. The mixture to lighten her skin she also denied, ultimately thanking them for their efforts but insisting she needed no help, and ushering them from the room. She suspected Solas had done the same as she heard servants’ voices raised in protest down the hall as her own entourage exited her chambers. 

Once they had left, Isala simply applied her own cosmetics sparingly, accentuating her features by lining her eyes with dark gold pigment and applying a faint dye to her lips to bring out their natural color. Her hair she left in a single braid, baroque pearl earrings and other gold piercings with a matching pearl necklace the only jewelry she donned. For formal wear she put on a simple ivory dress made of supple silk that felt like water against her skin. It wasn’t thin, nor was its neckline deep or it’s form too fitting, but still Isala felt exposed. She slipped on the muted green over-dress and relaxed slightly at the added layer. Her collarbone was exposed and the shape of the dress was fitted, but at least she was covered. Her feet, still bare but for the leg bracers, were met with cold marble when she stepped out from the carpeted floor of her room and looked around the hall. 

As she exited her chambers Isala saw Solas leaving his own room, dressed in a simple but elegant tunic of deep forest green; so dark it was almost black Velvet pants held a dark crimson shimmer in the candlelight and his front was partially covered by a swatch of black and gray fur across his chest. His hair was tied back from his face to form an elegant braid that fell down his back, broad shoulders and sharp jawline accentuated by the fit of his tunic and the high neck. His own feet were bare save for the leather that covered his arches and came up to his calves which prompted Isala to smile; it would seem they were both rebelling in their own way tonight. The door closing behind her prompted Solas to look up, still adjusting his sleeves, and he smiled when he saw her. 

Ivory silk flowed over her limbs like water, the skirt of her dress not clinging to her body, but still enough to emphasize her shape. The mellow green over dress was the color of peridot and wrapped elegantly around her waist to form a train. Loose sleeves covered her arms and the firmer cloth outlined her chest, covered by the creamy fabric so as not to leave her exposed. The un-tampered pearl jewelry she wore like stars against her brown skin, the single white braid falling elegantly over her shoulder. Isala seemed to glow in the golden light of the hallway, and he appreciated the view. Solas almost felt pity for the nobles who would witness her at Halamshiral; they had no hope of predicting her, nor any hope of winning against her. They would see only her beauty, and while they struggled to reconcile that, they could never hope to comprehend even a modicum of her intelligence and power, nor their plan to upend the Dales. 

Solas pushed down the bitter taste that followed his awe knowing the effect her beauty would likely have on Gaspard; he would be keeping a careful eye on the duke that evening. Isala was more than capable of defending herself, but that did not mean he would not cause the man irreparable harm should he overstep, or Solas’ patience wear thin. They walked toward one another, halving the distance and admiring each other as they did so. He extended an arm politely, his gaze playful.

“Shall we?” Isala smiled wryly in response to the arm he offered her, remembering how impressed Josephine had been at how quickly Solas had adapted to the etiquette and behaviors the ambassador and Vivienne had instilled in the group. His russet skin shone in the bright light of the hallway and violet eyes danced with amusement as Isala tried not to stare at him as she took his arm and they headed towards the dining hall. When they arrived in front of the tall wooden doors the servant standing there started slightly, as though surprised, or jolted out of a stupor. The doors opened before Isala could brace herself and they were announced. 

“Lady Isala Lavellan of the Inquisition and Sir Solas her, err, companion.” She closed her eyes and clenched her jaw, fingers on Solas’ arm squeezed tight in frustration. Josephine had made attempts to inform people, at Isala’s request, that the Inquisitor was not a woman, and to not use feminine titles to address her. Either these people did not know, or did not care. With Gaspard’s reputation, it was very possible it was the latter. Solas’ own arm stiffened and he gave the servant a cold look, stepping slightly closer to Isala, as though to offer her support. She let out a slow breath and they entered the room, already wishing they could leave.

The room was overly opulent, gold frames and gilding poorly balanced with dark crimsons and shades of black accompanied by loud greens and deep indigo. The dining table was unnecessarily long with seats for over 20 people, and decadently furbished. A rich scarlet tablecloth covered the dark mahogany like a blood stain. Its surface in turn hosted several heavy looking dishes of Orlesian recipes garnished with expensive flowers and surrounded by gilded candelabras and a lavish centerpiece that seemed to be made up of various hunting trophies accompanied by flowers in an attempt to balance the brutality. It did not have the desired effect, instead appearing crude and dissonant.

At the head of the table sat Gaspard, his wide jaw set in displeasure even as his mouth was twisted up in amusement; narrow eyes considering the pair as they walked around the table to take their seats. He wore richly dyed fabrics and wyvern skin leather meant to make him look more imposing and muscled than he actually was. Despite his large ears, Isala doubted the man listened well, and from the curl of his lip she knew anything he said would not be worth hearing. Gaspard’s head and jaw were both covered in thin stubble, eyebrows arched and nose and chin turned up as though he looked at everyone from a very great height. With the man’s ego, he essentially did.

The higher the pedestal the farther the fall.

Cullen sat on the duke’s right, shifting uncomfortably in his dark blue formal wear as he tugged at the collar, the commander’s single shoulder cape slightly crooked due to his fidgeting. Leliana sat beside him, short auburn hair pulled back into an ornate braid, dressed in an elegant but authoritative tunic-dress with fitted breeches and knee high boots, the shades of mauve in the dark fabric made visible under the candlelight. Josephine sat on the duke’s left, dressed in an opulent Antivan dress of royal blue with a sectioned skirt, umber pants revealed beneath the rich dark fabric. The ambassador’s hair was pulled back in a high bun with a jewel drop hanging over her forehead, her gold lip piercing glinted in the candlelight like a knife in the dark. 

Solas pulled out a chair for Isala to sit in next to Leliana and further from Gaspard, but the nobleman scoffed, waving a hand and finally speaking, voice greasy and simpering with a heavy Orlesian accent. “Why are you seated so far, Inquisitor? I do not bite,” The man bared his teeth in a sickening smile, “much. Come closer where we can speak with ease.” Isala stiffened but walked around the table, passing behind him and ignoring his gaze as she instead settled into the chair beside Josephine, who kept her face in a carefully polite mask even as her gray-brown eyes shone with concern. Solas sat beside Isala, sliding into his chair with easy grace, expression unreadable, but his jaw was taut above the high collar of his formal wear. Oblivious, or perhaps enjoying the discomfort of his guests Gaspard leaned back in his chair, smiling as he spoke.

“I do so hate these pleasantries but as your host I am compelled to inquire how you find the facilities, and whether you are enjoying your stay under my hospitality.” It was not a question. The duke reached out a gloved hand to grasp a crystal glass filled with dark liquid; likely one of the hard liquors he would usually partake in. Isala made eye contact with Leliana across the table who nodded ever so slightly. 

“We are grateful for the accommodation your grace has shown us, and as the representative of the Inquisition I extend my deepest gratitude. A man as experienced as yourself with animal cunning knows well enough which alliances would glean the most benefit.” Gaspard smiled at the compliment, apparently not registering the insults hidden in its midst, and took another drink, placing the empty glass back on the table. It was filled again before his hand reached the fork by his plate. Isala felt nothing but disgust as he cut into the decadent piece of meat, its flesh still mostly raw. The crimson liquid that seeped out onto the pure white dish reminded her of a bloodied corpse in the snow.

After more tepid conversation and testing, including Cullen’s guarded discussions of military maneuvers, Josephine’s flattery of Gaspard’s power, and Leliana’s discerning looks and decisive compliments, they had gained more information from the duke than he likely could ever have imagined. He, however, seemed bored of pleasantries, and even bored of being complimented. The nobleman switched to a new topic, cutting into a different piece of meat and chewing with his mouth open, grinning at Isala arrogantly, teeth gnashing as he spoke. 

“You Dalish are hunters, are you not? I enjoy hunting myself, you know. My favorite type of prey are those that run the fastest and fight the hardest.” Teeth stained red with wine, liquor, and blood bared at her in a vicious smile. “We have an infestation, you see. Quite widespread. The animals just don’t seem to know where they belong, and they breed litter by litter...it’s quite troubling. I can scarcely believe it but my requests to deal with the swarms have gone unheeded. Some think of rabbits as easy prey, but I think they just aren’t hunting the right kind. Wouldn’t you agree, Lady Lavellan?”

She wanted nothing more than to leap across the table and press the gilded knife she held in her hand to his throat, to see the fear fill his eyes as she ended him where he sat. To see him running in panicked horror as elves who had lived their lives terrorized by him and his chevaliers chased him down in a mission of extermination of their own, a righteous one. To watch the life leave his eyes after the laughter had been ripped from his lips. Death as the prey of a Dalish hunter was more merciful than he deserved.

Josephine’s eyes were on Isala, silently pleading for her to say nothing that would set off the duke, despite the ambassador’s own hands clenched tightly in her dress, their light knuckles suggesting she was tempted to slap him herself. Beside her, Isala could feel the tension rolling off of Solas. Out of the corner of her eye she saw his violet eyes burning with rage, again almost seeming to glow as they did when he was truly infuriated. His hand had slid to rest on her leg to support her as the conversation had unfolded, but now it held her thigh firmly, as though anchoring himself. Cullen was looking down at his dish, face pale, as though he had lost his appetite, something like shame warring with anger behind his eyes. Leliana stared coolly at Gaspard, as though imagining all the ways she could kill him without anyone knowing. Those cold blue eyes moved to Isala, resting on her with an open invitation: she should act however she saw fit, they would handle it.

When she spoke, her voice was clear and even, so steady it shocked even Isala. Her accent curled her words lyrically, but they were clear and concise, her golden gaze like a knife, smile as gentle as a summer breeze. “One must be careful, lest the hunter become the hunted. Not all who are hunted are prey, after all. And arrogance has made many men meet an end before their time. While a hunter might have the advantage of power, the hunted have numbers, and grudges.” She smiled wider, revealing sharp canines that glinted in the candlelight, her eyes dangerously cold. “In the heat of the chase things can become so blurred, after all. Even rabbits have teeth, your grace.”

Gaspard froze for a moment, eyes narrowed with rage, before suddenly he threw his head back and laughed raucously. His guffaws changed into hoarse chuckles as he collected himself, gaze cold even as he smiled at her. “My lady, you have far more wit than I would expect from someone of your stock. You almost talk like the womenfolk who play Orlais’ Game so smoothly. It would seem the Nightingale taught the lady well.” 

Leliana cut in, smiling saccharinely, her own gaze frosted over. “Our Inquisitor dislikes such titles, as they do not fit nor accurately describe her. And it is hardly a fair comparison, your grace. I taught her very little, far less than she has taught us.” The duke paused, looking confused, mouth twisting in warped amusement. He leaned back in his chair, taking another long drink from each of his glasses and beckoning a servant over. The steward whispered in his ear before offering up a golden tray with a box atop it. Gaspard extracted a cigar and lit it before taking a long drag as his smirk grew. The steward must have tried to inform him of Isala’s gender, but the duke had not taken heed so much as he took glee in the confirmation he had for another way to cause her disrespect and discomfort. Gaspard gestured to Isala, eyes lingering on her chest and the way her dress was pulled against her legs where she sat, his smile vile and hungry. 

“If _that_ is not a woman, I don’t know what is!” She stiffened with rage, heart racing and blood cold in her veins as the duke continued. “I know a woman when I see one. The one thing I can trust in, even in Orlais, is that they are all the same, even knife--elves. And I am never wrong.” Just as Isala clenched her fingers around her blade again, magic and rage stirring in the pit of her stomach as she debated whether to leap up and give a biting remark or to leave the room before she attacked the man, a low voice spoke up beside her, eerily calm and measured. 

“I fear you are quite mistaken, duke, I doubt you would be capable of recognizing a woman if one slit your throat in a brightly lit alcove, which I have heard some of them are wont to do.” Solas smiled easily, his violet eyes burning with anger and disgust, the hand that had been on her leg had moved to Isala’s lower back, pressing against her body to steady and reassure her. He continued, his voice light and friendly even as it dropped in timber. 

“Perhaps the reason these women you speak of navigate the Game so skillfully is to avoid being hunted. Though some might be lacking in wits and awareness, many people can identify a predator when they see one, even those with a beast’s cunning.” His eyes almost seemed to glow as he smiled at Gaspard, who sat frozen in his seat, likely out of equal parts shock and confusion as he tried to decipher Solas’ words. The duke’s cigar continued to burn, ashes falling from the stub onto his lap and scorching his finery as the elven man delivered his final comment, still smiling amicably. “Those that do not develop that instinct are doomed to be removed, one way or another.” 

Isala resisted the smile that tugged at her lips while Gaspard floundered, still processing Solas’ message. She gave him no time to do so, however, her voice as gentle as though she coaxed a child having hysterics. “It is the hubris of man to always think one’s own views and values are the most righteous. Perhaps looking inward would provide great insight into what is truly plaguing your, “beloved” Dales.” She smiled pleasantly, eyes glinting like the gilded knives that lined the table, but sharper and more unforgiving. “Of course, we speak only out of concern for the esteemed duke. _Dirth’ala ma. Mar el’varnas’athe ema mar din._ ” Isala stood slowly, rising gracefully from her seat as Solas followed suit and the advisors rose as well. 

Josephine spoke, her tone light and cordial, her smile as sweet as honeyed Antivan wine. “I do beg your pardon, your grace, but I’m afraid we are all rather tired. This meal has been decadent, and the conversation most stimulating, but your grace seems exhausted as well. Perhaps it would be best for us to end here for the evening, so that we might begin our preparations for tomorrow? All of Orlais will be clamoring to see the duke in all his splendor, after all.” 

Before Gaspard could respond with more than an instinctive tilt of his head that resembled a nod, Josephine swept them out the door, Cullen and Leliana bringing up the rear and closing the doors behind them. The duke’s muffled voice sounded behind the heavy carved wood, growing higher in volume as he realized what had been said to him. The sound of something breaking could be heard amidst his bellows and Josephine winced before clicking her tongue and rolling her eyes, beckoning for the others to follow her back to the room that served as the common chambers for the companions. She closed the doors behind them as Isala and Solas tested for any forms of magical surveillance and Leliana ensured there was no one in or outside the room to listen in on their conversation.

“The duke is most upset, but let us hope his current fit is the extent of his ill humor.” Josephine spoke in hushed tones despite the assurance no one was listening and no spells were in place to pick up or record their voices. Leliana snorted, leaning against the mantle of the fireplace and removing the pins that held back her hair. 

“This tantrum of his will be where it ends. He is a petty and shallow man, albeit a powerful one. He needs us, just as we need him, for now. We are using one another to our respective benefits, he cannot afford to jeopardize this alliance now.” 

Cullen cut in, looking agitated as he paced slightly, unbuttoning the collar of his formal wear and slipping off his cape and gloves to toss them on a chair by the fire. “But we can? I understand Gaspard was being repulsive, but as you say, we cannot afford to displease him _too_ much, lest we pay the price.” 

Leliana shook her head at the commander, gaze steady. “I said that _he_ cannot. We are relatively free to act, thanks to our true alliance.” The spymaster smiled slyly at Isala, who had walked to the other chair and sat down as Solas stood beside her, hand on her shoulder as she rubbed her temples gently; her headache had returned. “I wonder how his grace would react if he knew who we were truly aligned with to take the golden throne.”

Isala gave a wry smile in response, sighing. “Crush it, you mean. I doubt he would believe us, even if we told him outright. An elven woman? An elven rebellion? He would laugh so hard he might have an aneurysm.” Leliana laughed.

“That would certainly be convenient for us, though premature at this stage.” Cullen grumbled softly, voicing his discomfort with how easily they discussed the death and potential assassination of a powerful man. It _was_ easy. Isala did not want to take more lives than the bare minimum she was forced to in order to survive, but her empathy and compassion did not extend to those that possessed cruel apathy or enacted intentional brutality on her people or others who were oppressed. 

Not only did she not mind talking about Gaspard’s death, she enjoyed it. The realization had both unsettled her and offered understanding. Some might be capable of and willing to learn and unlearn in order to make changes and improve things for all people in the name of justice and equity, but others were so willfully ignorant and hateful they would rather cause harm and watch the rest of the world burn than listen to even one cry for change. She no longer felt the need to reach out to those that proved time and time again to stand for cruelty and close mindedness. Gaspard was one of the worst, and she would feel nothing but satisfaction and relief when he died. Isala only hoped everything would go according to plan, or as smoothly as one can hope.

When Isala had first ventured into the Exalted Plains, she had encountered not only Hawen’s clan, but other elves who were neither Dalish nor simple travelers. With Leliana’s help, they had discovered that Briala’s agents had been sabotaging both Empress Celene and Duke Gaspard’s troops for months; impinging the efforts to maintain the civil war and trying to undermine the nobility. When Isala had expressed interest in aiding Briala and the elven rebellion, her advisors had been reluctant to accept even entertaining the idea. After convincing, careful consideration, and further research, however, they accepted that it was a viable option and that, as humans, they did not fully understand the context of the politics and land ownership they discussed.

 _It will be a cultural and political upset_ , they had insisted. _A shift of massive proportions_. 

_So was the Long Walk to Halamshiral_ , Isala had replied. _So was the Exalted March of the Dales, and all the violence that preceded and followed._

Once Isala had made contact with Briala’s agents, they had begun exchanging communications; discussing an alliance and how to further infringe upon the Orlesian troops and human nobility. Though they had yet to meet in person, she felt she had a fairly good grasp on what type of person Briala was, and how dedicated she was to the liberation of elves. The admiration and respect Isala held for the elven revolutionary could not be exaggerated. Now, after months of planning and slowly putting elves in positions of power they had removed humans from, they had managed against all odds to position themselves in a way where some elves were close to holding noble titles, and hundreds more held valuable information that gave them control over the nobility that still held power in southeastern Orlais. All that was left was to deliver the deciding blows in Halamshiral, and alter the fate of the Dales, and elves, forever.

As Isala ruminated, Josephine spoke, choosing her words with care. “Although our alliance with Briala is strong, we have yet to meet her in person. This will be our first form of official contact, and given what we hope to do...we must proceed with caution. I admit I am still leery about the prospect but...you are our leader, Isala. We will support you however is necessary.” She gazed at the advisors, feeling exhausted by both the dinner they had just left and the prospect of what they would need to do in the future, but grateful to these allies of hers, her friends.

An hour or so passed as they discussed their options and fine tuned their plans, as well as how to ensure the duke’s temper would not escalate further. Finally they called it a night, giving their parting good nights and heading off to their individual rooms. Leliana pulled Solas aside, asking to speak with him, and he obliged, eyes lingering on Isala and pressing his hand into her lower back before walking away with the Nightingale. 

On the way back to her own chambers Isala’s emotional fatigue and headache caught up with her. When she opened the doors to see someone, perhaps Josephine, had ordered for a hot bath to be drawn in her room she let out a soft sound of relief. After washing her face in the basin by the vanity and stripping off her clothing and jewelry, she climbed gratefully into the bath, sinking into the hot water until it lapped around her collarbone. As her hair floated on the water’s surface the tension drained from Isala’s body, but not her mind.

She was furious. 

She wanted nothing more than for the duke to eat his words, to choke on his pride, to die knowing every word he spoke about elves and every act he committed against them was the cause of his demise. That he had been wrong, and all he had thought he knew was wrong. She wanted every human who shared his views and values to suffer and experience even an iota of the strife and pain elves had endured and continued to desperately try to survive. She wanted the Orlesian nobility to crumble and for the gilded halls of the hungry country that stood on the land of elves to be crushed into powder under the feet of The People’s rebellion. 

She also knew none of it could happen that way, at least not yet. 

Isala was not used to feeling angry, and it was exhausting. The shame and fury she felt due to Gaspard’s lecherous and discriminatory words and treatment of her weighed her down, and his comments lingered like filth she struggled to wash off. As she tried to calm herself, her headache intensified until it was finally soothed by her healing magic. Isala tried to think of their plans for Halamshiral and the resilience of her people to soothe herself and managed to calm her nerves enough to truly enjoy the bath. After several more minutes a knock sounded at the door and she paused, setting down the hot soaked washcloth she had been using to wipe her body. A knock sounded again, this time followed by a low voice that called out her name softly, not as a question but rather an announcement of his arrival.

“Isala.” It was Solas. Quickly she rose from the bath, her hair and body still damp as she dried herself swiftly and slipped on a white nightgown. Its fabric was thin and it had no sleeves, leaving her arms exposed and her chest barely covered. Still it was better than nothing, and what mattered now was seeing him. 

She opened the door quickly, staring up at Solas where he stood, just outside the room, his formal wear traded for casual clothing; a comfortably fitted tunic under a fur mantle paired with loose pants and bare feet. His hair had been removed from his braid to fall freely over his shoulders and back in tight curls, his gaze immediately trained on her to discern her emotional state. His eyes widened slightly when he saw her and he smiled gently, stepping closer to block the doorway so that if anyone should pass they would not see her. 

“I apologize for disturbing you. Did you enjoy your bath?” Isala understood then that somehow Solas had orchestrated for the bath to be sent to her rooms, likely with Josephine’s help. Caught up in an intense surge of emotion, she stepped into him and leaned her forehead against his chest. He raised a hand to stroke her hair, the other snaking around her back to hold her so gently she felt as though they would melt into one another. 

When she didn’t respond he spoke again, voice soft. “I would advise you not to answer the door with that appearance for anyone else, _vhenan_. For all my restraint, even I find it hard to resist.” Isala looked down and saw how truly inconsequential the nightgown was for hiding her figure and blushed. She stepped back slightly and Solas moved his hands to link behind her back as she looked up at him, her brown skin flushed with embarrassment and the lingering heat of the bath, white hair still damp as the nightgown clung to her skin. 

“ _Ma serannas, ma sa’lath._ I was almost finished bathing but not quite...will you wait?” He smiled down at her, russet skin glowing in the low light, violet eyes gentle as he nodded. 

“ _Ma nuvenin_.” Isala had expected him to wait outside but instead he released her and walked over to one of the chairs in front of the fireplace, choosing the one angled slightly away from where the bath was positioned, but not fully out of view. She felt her cheeks heat again but didn’t truly mind, a wry smile tugging at her lips as she recognized the amusement dancing in his eyes as he drank in the sight of her blush. Isala walked past him and made sure he was politely averting his gaze before shedding the nightgown and entering the bath again, sighing as she sank into the hot water once more. She reached for the washcloth to retrieve it from the basin on the stool and saw Solas holding it out for her to retrieve, gaze still averted but his cheeks lifted in a smile.

Again Isala felt her own cheeks grow warm, and took it from him with thanks, sitting up slightly so she could wash her back. She gathered her hair over her shoulder and closed her eyes when she felt the cloth against her skin. Her head dropped down and her chin met her chest as she let out another long breath, tension once again melting away as she luxuriated in the hot water. From behind her Solas chuckled, seeming to enjoy hearing how much she enjoyed his gift. It was these acts of service for one another they had begun to do more often in their relationship that drove home how much they cared for each other, and how their relationship had changed. And now...Isala needed this certainty of their love for one another more than ever. She wondered if maybe he did too...she turned in the tub, covering herself slightly as she looked up at where he sat in his chair, turning to look at her.

“Again, _Ma serannas_. Would you like to use it as well? I would be happy to help you.” Solas smiled and shook his head, posture relaxed where he sat, his fur mantle hung over the back of the chair, fingers gently holding one of her books, its pages not yet open.

“I appreciate the offer, but perhaps another time. I have already bathed, and I suspect you need this more than I.” He put the book aside and stood, walking over to the bathtub and leaning down to brush back the stray strands of hair clinging to Isala’s face. “And _I_ need _this_.” 

She did. _They_ did. But suddenly it wasn’t enough.

Shyness forgotten, Isala stood in the tub, climbing out quickly and drying off with a towel before slipping the nightgown back on. As she moved, Solas stood as well, walking over to stand next to her, not saying anything, just watching her, observing. 

She wanted to--she wasn’t sure _what_ she wanted to do. But she wanted it, wanted _him_ . To feel him there with her; solid and warm and kind, comforting and familiar and new all at once. She wanted him to look at her and truly see her. _Her_ . Not an idea of her, not a fantasy or an assumption, but _her_. And yet if she looked at him now...

Long fingers entered her vision as Solas reached out to cradle her face, tilting her head and drawing her gaze to his as he looked into her. The recognition she saw there, her own image reflected in the deep violet of his eyes, skin taking on a copper glow in the candlelight, dark hair falling loose over his shoulder as he leaned down to kiss her, it was everything. It was intoxicating, but safe. _He_ was safe.

When their mouths met it wasn’t the envelopment she had expected, but something softer, though just as intense. Solas’ lips instead brushed gently against her own, as though gauging her state of mind. His eyes were still open and watching her as he kissed her again, her hands limp at her sides as she stood there, swaying steadied by his soft embrace. Finally Isala closed her eyes and sank into him as he held her, their kisses deepening; slow and sweet, his arms around her again holding her so gently she felt she might slip through him. When she stepped closer and wound her arms around his neck, though, Solas swept her up, holding her to him with an intensity even fiercer than their last embrace. He lifted her up and carried her to the bed, lips and eyes never leaving hers even as he placed her down gently, climbing on the bed to lean over her. 

Finally, the duke's words and the leer he had focused on her the entire evening left Isala’s mind as she lost herself in Solas. The only thing that mattered was the feel of his skin against hers, the sound of his soft labored breathing, the sweetness of his kiss, the tickling caress of his eyelashes against her face, and the feel of his curls as she gently caressed his hair, drawing his head further down to deepen their kiss. The heat of his hand against her breast made her gasp and their lips parted, Solas gazing down at her, his eyes asking a question. Isala answered it in kind by pulling his shirt up and splaying her hands on his chest, exploring the skin there and feeling something in the pit of her stomach throb as he responded, letting out a low chuckle as their lips met again. 

His kisses were intoxicating, tongue gently exploring her mouth and outlining the shape of her lips as his fingers traced her body. When he brushed his thumb over her nipple she cried out and he pulled back to look at Isala. Her white hair was splayed around her head on the golden sheets, branching out onto the silk pillows like prongs of a river or colorless roots. Light brown skin was flushed with the heat of the bath and excitement, nightgown hiked up over one of her thighs as she shifted beneath him, gaze open but eyelids heavy, as though drunk. It was a different kind of rapture. All of the stress, the rage, the uncertainty, the fear, the frustration, melted off of them, drowned out by the intensity of the pull between them. 

Solas’ fingers grazed her inner thigh as he pushed her nightgown up, lips moving from her mouth to her jaw, then her neck, kissing it gently and grazing the skin with his teeth, smiling with satisfaction when her back arched in response. It was hardly fair. Despite her lack of experience, the instinctive desire to touch had provided Isala with the intuition for what felt right. She moved her hands from the back of his head to his neck, stroking his skin before reaching around to sneak beneath his tunic again and brush her fingers against his back, pushing her leg gently between his legs and feeling his heat. He let out a soft sound against her collarbone, hips moving at her touch, but not pulling away. She felt the wet warmth of his tongue against her breast and she cried out in surprise, legs moving again and pressing against him even as he snaked a hand beneath her nightgown to caress her gently.

They took refuge in each other’s bodies, stroking and exploring as their lips met and parted. Solas’ breathing grew more labored and he closed his eyes, brow furrowed with the intensity of sensation as Isala watched him, her own body swept up by his touch. When he pressed his fingers deeper into her and she let out another cry he swallowed it up, drinking her in like a man dying of thirst. As her pace quickened she gratefully took in the soft, low sounds he made, soaking in his husky whispers, one hand with fingers wrapped around him, the other gripped the arm Solas used to brace himself above her on the bed as he brought her to completion, gaze steady on her. Once Isala finished she led him there as well, eyes never leaving him as he leaned into her, face nuzzling her neck and breathing in her scent as his hair spilled over her and his hips moved.

Solas collapsed beside her and they lay there together, skin hot and breathing ragged from the exertion. He gazed at Isala, reaching over to brush the hair back from her face, watching as her chest rose and fell with her breathing, her cheeks flushed and eyes shining, lips kiss bruised but smiling. She responded in kind, brushing his hair back from his face and admiring how his umber skin shone with sweat and candlelight, violet eyes smoldering with heat and satisfaction, echoed by something like wonder in their depths, the pace of his chest growing more steady as the moments passed. It was only a foot or so, but it was too far. They breached the distance simultaneously; Isala burrowing her face in his chest and wrapping her arms around his back as Solas drew her in, embracing her and stroking her hair. 

“I fear I have made you waste the efforts of taking the bath.” Solas paused, chuckling into her hair. “Although you never did finish bathing, did you.” Isala smiled into his neck, eyes closed as she breathed in his scent of sandalwood. 

“Whose fault is that?” He kissed the top of her head, laughter causing her hairs to flutter, tickling her skin.

“Mine. But it is something we can easily correct, if you wish it.” She hummed against his collarbone, already feeling drowsy. She could feel him smile even with her eyes closed. 

Solas shifted so that he was holding Isala and stood, carrying her over to the bath again and gently removing her nightgown and his pants. She was too tired to feel embarrassed, simply turning into him and wrapping her arms around his neck as he heated the water with magic. She murmured softly and added her magic to his. Once the water was warm enough he climbed in, sitting down and extending himself before positioning Isala to sit in the bath in front of him between his legs. She leaned back into him, sighing contentedly as the hot water lapped around her chest, the heat of Solas from behind her making her feel so relaxed she feared she would fall asleep in the water. 

They soaked for a while, talking quietly before washing and drying each other. They cared for each others’ hair, brushing and treating the other’s tresses before finally entering the bed again, slipping beneath the sheets and luxuriating in the warmth. Isala quieted the candles in the room but let the fireplace continue to burn as she and Solas held one another. Her cheek rested on the pillow as her fingers traced his face sleepily, his arms wrapping around her as they both drifted into sleep, blissfully lost in one another as they entered the Fade to enjoy the night together before taking the Orlesian empire by storm. 

They dreamt of wolves and freedom.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Gaspard can choke, and in fact, I hope he does. Guess we'll have to wait and see! Next chapter we're finally on to the Winter Palace and all the machinations of the Orlesian court.
> 
> Elvish featured in text:  
> Dirth’ala ma. Mar el’varnas’athe ema mar din. (may you learn. your cruelty will be your end.)
> 
> Repeat words but:  
> Ma serannas (thank you/my thanks)  
> Ma sa'lath (my one love)  
> ma nuvenin (as you wish)


End file.
